Ebony and Alabaster
by excelsis
Summary: If this story is about anything, it's love: Love of honor, compassion, & nobility; bloodshed, pain, & suffering; dance, family, & friends; religion, sex, & politics; joy; fear; hate; passion. It's about finding small things you can admire in someone you dislike. The world is never black and white. And we so rarely do the things we should. The story opens in Leto's third summer...
1. Chapter 1: Bleeding Sun

Before the city, the golden sun was setting, its warm light casting a soft glow to the land and reflecting off of the glass windows and mosaics in the city, but also creating long dark shadows in its wake—shapes that would twist into dragons and demons. It was at once beautiful and frightening, and in so many ways felt like the last day on earth.

"They'll be here by tomorrow," Calias said, looking out at the empty horizon, leaf-green eyes squinting against the sun.

Mieta's fingers wrapped around her husband's arm, seeking comfort as well as his full attention. "Do… Do you suppose we should have gone north with the others?" she asked apprehensively—a question she asked herself at least once a day lately, as the time drew nearer.

He looked back at her, and smiled so warmly that it even reflected in his eyes, as if nothing in the world were wrong. She found herself wanting to smile back on instinct. His smile had always tugged upon her soul like that. She hadn't loved him when they had been wed; he had seemed so austere. As it turned out, she had intimidated him into silence unwittingly. After she was pregnant with their firstborn, and she was sick, he became very attentive. One day, he had come back from a scouting mission, and she had presented him with their son; he had presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers he had picked during the mission, and her heart had softened to his thoughtfulness.

He put his hand against her slightly swollen belly, and kissed her gently on the mouth. "It would be dangerous to make that journey, my love," he told her, his voice a soft whisper. She felt like all the world was right when she looked into his leaf green eyes, like nothing in the world could ever come between them. Tomorrow, they would weather the day, and everything would be all right.

But that wasn't how it was, and defeat lurked inevitably in the air all around them, so thick you could almost pluck it from the air. They were outnumbered—badly. They were alone; the branch of the Antaam stationed closest to them, the one harrying the Tevinters in Seheron, was still weeks away and would never make it in time to save them (many said they had never intended to come), and there was nothing they could do. Infuriating, considering that the army could have moved to help them, but they had not. Weeks ago, they had been warned that they were coming, and some had fled in fear. At first, the others had laughed. Surely their city was too small to warrant their attention? Surely the Antaam would arrive before it was ever a problem?

But that had been weeks ago. Others had continued to flee as their impending demise came down upon them. Others had remained resolute: They were too stubborn, or had faith in their warriors. They didn't believe it could happen—does anyone believe their doom is coming before it is upon them? They would not abandon their post. They were invincible; and they were going to win. The Tevinters had been breaking their teeth against the walls of Schavalis for years now, and they had never fallen. They had always held fast, an outpost and haven for decades since it first fell. But the fist of the Antaam had never been so far away, called to where they were needed; one of their own ports was under siege and they had to break the siege. Of course they were more important than a mostly sovereign town.

Schavalis had an interesting history, reminiscent but not quite like the Free Cities. It was, once, part of the Tevinter Imperium but war left it ravaged and for some time all but abandoned by the Imperium. Years ago, it had been assaulted by the Qunari forces. The histories spoke that the siege lasted three days, and by the third the city burned. The Tevinters escaped in their ships or horseback if they had to, but they had no room for their slaves and anyone they deemed too unimportant to be granted life, who were left behind at the mercy of the Qunari; it had been a liberation of sorts. That had happened little over a generation ago. Now, it bordered on the territory the Qunari controlled, but was overall considered a free city with its sympathies toward the Qunari. There was some talk and dispute over officially joining the Qun, but the city officials never seemed to stop bickering about it and were reluctant to give up their "sovereignty."

In reality, it was a feigned sovereignty, but only a rare few actually knew and acknowledged that. They had convinced the Qunari, though it wasn't easy, to begin conversion slowly, though it was only beginning to take deeper root. The Qunari were rarely so patient, but even they had seen that forced conversion wasn't working every time and there were those in their own people who suggested a different way might be better. Their leaders had accepted this, as they had seen in the past for themselves how peoples of other cultures and races would go to them, given time, of their own free will; Schavalis was a trial of sorts. It also helped that forced conversion generally roused the attention of the Chantry—and that only led to more war. The Chantry, for the larger part, was content to ignore the Qunari if all they did was attack Tevinter, but Schavalis was different.

People had begun to notice, to accept. In a few more years, it might just simply become natural. One of the biggest arguments was that the language would be difficult to pick up and learn, more because many Qunari do not speak the common tongue than anything else, so it would be required that everyone learn their language, so they might speak the Qun as it was meant to be spoken. There were a few Andrastians in Schavalis who were starkly in opposition to this, but Schavalis' former allegiance to the Imperium had left its Chantry a ghost of what it meant in other countries.

Mieta stared at Calias, wanting so desperately to believe him, but all she could think of was the death that marched on the horizon. They would be in sight by morning, a dark death brought by the dawn. And, with the flat of the land, they would see them march all day, slowly. The waiting alone would drive her mad, she felt. It was rumoured that they would attack at dawn the day after tomorrow, when the light was in the defender's eyes.

"You didn't answer me," she insisted, taking his callused hand in hers. It was strong, usually, from work, from a sword. Today, it felt that her terror overpowered his calm and his strength.

But even so, his calm did not yield. "The walls have never fallen, not since they were built," he told her, still evading her. She looked at him, her eyebrows raising in disbelief. He thought they were going to die. At best, that would be true. At worst… it didn't bear thinking of.

She looked back, at the town below them. She looked back at him, her eyes watering in terror. They could run. Her husband couldn't; he would be considered a deserter, but no one would stop the helpless refugees. It had become so bad that they had drafted anyone who could hold a sword or bow into the militia, and those ones would likely balk once the gates fell.

He must have guessed her thoughts from her expression, for he said, "My dear, if you ran, you would be alone in the wilderness."

She swallowed hard. But if she ran, she might preserve her life, and their child's. Her hand touched her belly. Her throat still felt dry. "So I should be alone in our house, listening to the gates breaking and the sound of men dying?" she asked him.

He didn't know what to say, so he pulled her close against him in his arms. It wasn't private. There were others on the wall too, but they gave the two some semblance of privacy by looking away.

She could say nothing more, so did not. She kissed him, and headed down the stairs. The walls seemed strong. Impenetrable even. Tall, thick, something she had seen all her life. It had been a constant throughout her life, something solid she felt she could rely on. Would that be gone too?

She continued on. Everyone else seemed to feel what she had felt. It was so quiet. Shops closed early, and people kept their children close and shut inside. Everything was so eerily hushed, she reflected as she looked around the street.

There should be people here—a few scattered Qunari on occasion (mostly those on scouting missions stopped to resupply or even Tal-Vashoth when they dared), elves, humans, a couple of surface dwarves too. They should be selling their wares, laughing, telling stories. They should be living their lives. This shouldn't have to be. Nothing like this should have to be.

The Qun taught that if death was visited upon someone, that that is their fate. Was it their fate to die? She didn't want to die. Didn't want anyone here to die. Why couldn't they just leave them alone? They were a peaceful farming village. They supplied the Qunari with food, occasionally warriors, mages when they cropped up, but they had never, _never_ actively fought. She couldn't understand what would drive a person to want to slaughter innocents. She couldn't imagine a world where those people could be allowed to exist.

They denied everything of the Qun, and the Maker. Why? Mieta couldn't understand it. Growing up here, she had been taught both ways, and allowed to come to her own decisions. There was never harm in knowledge, after all. She still wasn't sure what she believed, and wasn't sure it even mattered any longer.

She stopped walking, not suddenly but more as if she had forgotten to continue her path.

A shutter in the distance banged shut, and it echoed—_echoed!—_in the lonely streets. The sun was just beginning to spill its fires across the distant sky, and it was already so…

_Abandoned_, she thought.

She looked around herself, as if seeing this place for the first time. In her mind's eye, she saw the buildings ablaze, their smoke blocking out the light of the morning's sun. The river would run red with blood, and bodies. It would be a city of decay, and death. Crows and ravens would flock to feast upon the carrion, where the bodies would simply be left to rot in the elements as a warning to all…

Calias had always said she was over-imaginative, but the thought only caused a deep pang in her gut. What if she was right?

She couldn't bear to think of it, yet the thoughts still came, and she wished they would stop. She couldn't think like that; believing in something could make it true—her Ma had always said that, both as a hopeful wish for her to carry, and as a warning.

The cawing of a crow startled her enough to jump. She looked up at the dark bird, perched on someone's roof. It watched her curiously from its perch, clacking in a way that sounded to her like chortling at her misfortune. If she had wings, she could just fly away, after all. More to her folly; she did not. The bird twisted its head to one side, its black shiny eyes staring down at her. She felt like it was waiting. She had heard that the birds went for the eyes first.

_Where are the gulls?_ The noisy seabirds were always about, even in the evening, looking for scraps. She didn't even see the pigeons, and that bothered her more than anything else. She looked back up at the crow. _The birds know more than we do. Or they just have more sense._

She hesitated at the street she should take to get home, but instead turned down another passage.

The twist of the road led her through the town, and she was conscious that she was heading downhill slowly. The town sat on two large hills, with a wall surrounding it, and even the harbor was cut off by the wall. In the past, it had been more to ward out predators, but with the war going on, the fortification had been added to, again and again until they became the high, strong walls they were now.

_They can't be breached_, she tried to remind herself. The walls were thicker than she was tall, and filled with sand. The doors were bound in iron. Atop the walls were archers of skill, and boiling oil and tar. They had held fast in times past, against pirates, against raiders, and armies. They should hold fast now.

_But they had no mages_. No, the Qun dictated, and they gave them away. Oh, there might be one apostate—perhaps two at most—hiding in the town, but she doubted it. More than that, whoever they were would not dare to reveal their existence unless it was already too late, and it would be nothing but an act of desperation. They would have waited too long to help—too little, too late.

She stopped at the market square, looking up at the statue. It was a work of smooth granite by a craftsman of great skill, one that had been a slave years ago, then a freed man, and had died that way long ago. The warrior was clothed in magnificent armor, poised, dignified. His face was hidden by his great helm, and the armor and the helm kept all from guessing anything more about him. The artist may have intended him human, or elven, or even dwarven; it was taller than a Qunari.

The Warrior faced south, in stark opposition to the unknown forces that would seek to suppress him, and the positioning was no coincidence. He watched the south, ever vigilante, never yielding. He was a figure of strength amidst the weakness all around that she felt all too clearly in the air. He was a figure of light amidst this darkness. And, she felt, life though he possessed none. Sometimes, a thing didn't need to have something to make that thing real to someone else.

Seeing the Warrior gave her a sense of resolve, a determination. She bowed her head for a moment, whispering a silent prayer to the Maker for deliverance. But even as she said the words, she knew they fell to deaf ears. The Maker had abandoned all of them years ago, even the Chant of Light dictated that bit. He had never heard her prayers before, or anyone's, she imagined.

Why would he start listening now?

Her path led her down into the valley. Superstition and a sense of propriety kept it away, but it had become vast and sprawling out of necessity.

She went past the creaking gate, lost in her thoughts of divinity. She passed among the headstones, some so old they were crumbling, others growing lichen. There were a few larger monuments, but most small headstones. She saw flowers on a few of the graves, and seashells on others. She saw crumbling tokens that had meant something in life to the deceased, that meant nothing now to her. They were forgotten, and lost, except by their families and those that loved them. And even so, they didn't care; they were dead and cremated.

She found the small bend her family lay. She knelt before her parents' grave, not knowing any words she could give them, nor what she could ask. Looking at their graves, she felt a sense of sadness in her heart.

"I envy you, Mother," she said gently. The wind rustled the dried grass, lifting her dark hair. She tucked a lock of it behind one pointed ear, twisting it in her fingers like she had when she was a young girl. She swallowed, thinking of the encroaching army. "You never doubted if your children would know where you lay to rest."

She touched her pregnant belly, trying to swallow past the dryness she felt in her throat. There was so much wrong with this world, and it would not be content to leave them alone.

Mieta clasped her hands, and resolved to pray. Whether anyone heard her or not, she felt better for having done it.

When she finished, she made her way back up the hill, down the streets, until she came to her street.

She had left Leto at the neighbor's for her visit, and they had a daughter born not two weeks after he, and, being neighbors, had grown up friends. She hoped that they had locked them in the house instead of letting them in the garden, though she had little hope for that.

She went up to the house with the faded red door. There was a stain on it that to her looked rather like a ram's head. She rapped gently on the door, and only a touch louder after a moment and there was no answer.

She heard Sharall before the woman came to the door, apologizing all the way. The door opened with a modest squeak of complaint. She made a face at the sound.

"Inrir! You said you fixed this door!" she complained, calling back over her shoulder at her husband somewhere inside the house.

"Fool woman—of course I did. The door just knows more than you do," he called back through the house.

_Like the birds._ But Mieta forced a warm smile on her lips, though she feared that it did not touch her soft hazel eyes. Sharall rolled her eyes at her husband, but stepped aside to let Mieta inside. She wiped her feet gingerly on the matt. Sharall closed the door behind her, and locked it, she noticed.

"Would you like tea?" she asked, wringing her hands nervously.

Everyone was nervous. Tea would do her some good. "Please," she said. She followed Sharall into the kitchen area, where she already had a kettle of water on the stove. Mieta had a seat as her hostess prepared the tea. The kettle was whistling before she was finished, and she poured three cups. One, she explained, for her husband if he ever decided to be respectful to their guest and say hello.

"How has my son been?" Mieta asked conversationally. She held her cup in her hands, grateful of its warmth and the pleasant aroma of the steam on her face, even though the tea needed more time to steep before it was worth drinking.

Sharall laughed gently. "He's darling," she replied. "I love having him, and Lura is just smitten with him—you should see them."

Mieta found herself smiling in spite of herself. The muscles felt good to use. "And he's as oblivious as ever, I assume?"

The other elf took a tentative sip of her tea. "As ever," she agreed. Both sets of parents had been discussing having their children wed when they came of age. Arranged marriages were much less complicated than leaving it up to their children to decide, after all, and the Qun taught that it was much more efficient besides. Though, they had also agreed not to tell either of them for a few more years yet, for both their sakes. Let them enjoy each other's company before they learn that they must tolerate it the rest of their lives.

_If they lived long enough to be wed._


	2. Chapter 2: Shadow

"No!" the girl cried. "Oh, please come down, Lady, _please_!" Lura stood at the base of the trunk, forlorn and miserable. The apple tree wasn't_ that_ tall, but she couldn't reach, and she certainly couldn't climb! Her lower lip quivered as the little ball of fur teetered on a branch. The kitten mewed piteously, trapped by its own curiosity.

She never should have taken Lady outside to play. Mama said that the kitten wanted to climb into trees, and she had snuck her out in the folds of her dress anyway. Oh, she just _couldn't_ tell Mama! Her little fists balled at her sides. She felt like flopping down in the grass and giving up. Lady was too scared to climb down, and Lura was too scared to climb up after her.

She stared up at her kitten, reaching her arms out toward her, wishing the cat would just jump down into the safety of her arms. She was scared for Lady. She shouldn't be outside on a night like tonight, after all.

"If you keep doing that, she'll _never_ come down," Leto chided her. He was sitting on the little bench Papa had made, his legs dangling over the side, feet not quite long enough to touch the ground yet. He had been watching her beg and plead with the cat intermittently, much more interested in the bird's nests, terrorizing the fish in the pond, and trying to catch the frogs in the garden.

Lura turned to him, lips curled in a pout, brows drawn down in a petulant glare. Her little fists planted on her hips. "Well, what would _you_ do, Mr. Smarty-pants?"

He smirked. "Leave her there—she'll come down eventually."

She stared at him, aghast at the idea. "No!" she exclaimed after a moment of stunned silence. "She's my _baby_! I can't leave her out in the dark all alone. What about owls?"

He glanced up at the kitten, a ball of pale grey fur lost amidst the branches. He could hear it mewling occasionally. "Um… Well, why would anything want to eat Lady? She's more fluff than meat anyway—Hey!"

She heaved a convenient rock at him. He ducked, and it hit the garden wall behind him instead. She stuck her tongue at him. He made a face. "Meanie," she called him.

His mouth twisted into a frown. "If you'd ask me _nicely_ I _might_ go get her, y'know."

She perked up at that, and walked over to him. She batted her long lashes up at him, just as sweet as you please. Her bow lips curved into a flattering smile, her eyes growing wide and hopeful. "Oh, please—pretty please—would you go rescue my kitten from the apple tree, my prince?"

He started to scowl, then decided to make it a game. He hopped off of the bench, going to one knee, taking one of her hands in both of his. She giggled. "And when I've rescued your kitten, princess, what would you give your knight?"

She scowled at this. "You're ruining it! I want a prince!"

He made a face. "What do _they_ ever do? Knights slay _dragons_ and _fight in tournaments_ and—"

The kitten's desperate plea for help cut him off. Lura said, "I would give my knight my hand in marriage, and make him a prince." This seemed to appease both of them. He climbed to his feet, and trotted over to the base of the tree. He seized it up, trying to work out the best way to climb it. He was very determined for a three-year-old, though elves are very limber and acrobatic by birthright. He found a bucket nearby, and carried it to the tree. He overturned it and climbed onto it so he could reach the first low-hanging branch. He gripped it tightly, near the trunk of the tree, and pulled himself up.

Lura watched from the ground with a growing sense of apprehension. What if he fell? Or just knocked Lady out of the tree? Would she get hurt? Would _he_ get hurt if he fell? She began to worry if she shouldn't have just told Mama. If he got hurt, it would be much worse than just getting in trouble for disobeying.

She bit her lower lip, watching him climb up higher. Lady had never liked him overmuch though, and in her fright, she scampered away from him, climbing out on to thinner limbs to evade his grasp. A gasp escaped her lips as the kitten tottered. It squeaked, but Leto pursued it mercilessly. One small hand reached out toward it. The kitten spat, regained its balance, and bristled at the approaching hand. Its ears laid back.

"Watch out!" she called from below, but too late. The kitten raked its claws across his hand. He hissed in sudden pain, recoiling briefly, before darting his hand back out. It skittered away to a lower branch, and he climbed after it. In its fright, it kept perching precariously on thin branches, and sometimes had trouble finding footing. During these moments, there was a brief window of time in which the animal would teeter, concentrating more on not falling than avoiding Leto's reaching hands.

She watched as his hand grasped a patch of grey fur, and yanked the complaining creature off of the branch. It spat furiously, and she knew its little claws were sharp as it tried to claw up his hands and arms. He grumbled something, but she couldn't quite make out what exactly.

He looked about himself, then shrugged and dumped the kitten down the front of his tunic, belted at the waist, it created a sort of pouch for it, leaving his arms free. He began the treacherous climb back down, carefully, and occasionally flinching from what she imagined were tiny claws.

He dropped to the ground, bits of twigs stuck in his dark hair. Looking none too happy, he reached into his tunic and unceremoniously dumped the little ball of fur and claws into Lura's anxious outstretched arms. The treacherous creature started purring almost immediately, rubbing its head against her chin, grateful after its ordeal.

Leto, on the other hand, glared at it morosely. But Lura smiled as if nothing could ever go wrong in the world, holding her tight. "Oh, Lady…" she breathed in relief. "I'm so glad you're all right."

Leto crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

Lura remained blissfully unaware. She spun about in a circle, her skirts lifting about her knees. They settled when she stopped. "Oh, you poor thing—you must have been so scared!" she went on, utterly oblivious.

The boy's lips pursed into a dissatisfied frown.

"Was it scary stuck in that tree with a big monster grabbing you?" she cooed.

At that, Leto exploded, "Monster!?"

She looked up at him, as if just having taken notice of his existence. "Oh, thank you for rescuing Lady," she said quickly, and went back to cooing over her kitten.

He threw his hands up in the air, giving up on the matter. He stomped by her, grumbling something about "stupid girls and kittens." She smiled to herself, rubbing the kitten's little head. She turned to her friend, calling, "Leto." She smiled sweetly at him, eyes all for him.

He turned his head, still looking just as displeased as before. She giggled, stepped closer, and kissed him gently on the cheek. She stepped back in time to avoid him shoving her away. He wiped at his cheek as if it were mud. He made a face. "Why'd ya do that?" he complained.

She stared at him admonishingly. "_That's_ what a real lady does when a man does something nice for her."

His face twisted into a sour expression. "Well, I'm never doing something nice for a _lady_ ever again!" he insisted, dashing away before she got any ideas. She scowled after him, shaking her head in despair, as if she had some secret enlightenment that he did not. Her auburn curls bounced as she marched to the door. She let her kitten into the house and quickly shut it after her. She chased after Leto, but didn't see him. She looked around herself despairingly.

"Leto?" she called, feeling alone. She looked up at the sky. It was getting dark. She took a nervous step back. The shadows seemed so much deeper, darker. They seemed like they could hold maleficar and abominations in their shadows, and other monsters. Every rustle of the wind to her ears suddenly sounded like something malevolent coming to devour her. She felt her heart race in her chest, pounding in her ears like a drum. She looked about herself. Maybe she should go back inside? She looked back toward the door to the house. It seemed so far, and there were so many shadows…

She had heard the adults talking, whispering as if she couldn't hear them. They said things, things that scared her. They spoke of war, and battle. They spoke of things she didn't understand, but things that frightened her nonetheless. They said that something was coming on the horizon, something bad. In the shadows, it felt like it could be all about her now.

"Leto?" she tried again, now feeling desperate. Something touched her shoulder, and she jumped with a yelp of fright, whirling to face it. She was met with his grinning face, and he howled with laughter. Her hands fisted at her sides. "Oh, you're so mean!" She kicked him in the shin, and he barely seemed to notice. She angrily stomped away, suddenly no longer worried about the shadows. They were just shadows after all.

His laughter trailed behind her, but stopped after a moment or two. "Lura!" he cried, chasing after her. They weren't allowed in the garden alone, after all. She stomped up to the door, still mad at him. She turned and glared at him. He frowned, not at all sure of what to do. "It was… I was just joking."

She stuck her tongue out at him, crossing her arms angrily. She huffed, looking away. "Hmph."

He started to roll his eyes, then stopped. "Fine—I'm sorry I scared you."

She stared at him for a moment or two, trying to judge if he were really sincere. His pretty green eyes were soft, not unkind, and so full of life and promise. She didn't know how she could _truly_ stay angry with him. "Well…" She tried to be angry anyway, but he was looking at her with such big puppy eyes that she couldn't help but smile shyly. "Oh, all right. Let's go inside—it's getting cold."

"Is not," he countered, but got the door anyway. As she passed inside, she glanced back over her shoulder at the encroaching shadows. The garden looked like an entirely different place in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3: The Horns

Sharall of course invited them for dinner, and Mieta could think of no good reason not to stay and enjoy the company of others for a touch longer. The children kicked each other's feet under the table until the adults put a stop to it. They weren't mad at each other; quite the opposite, in fact. Children will be children, after all.

As her son sat beside her, she couldn't help but pick all the bits of twigs out of his hair, much to his chagrin. He tried to dodge her hands, but she would patiently wait until he went back to eating or kicking Lura's feet, and took the opportunity to pick another bit of tree out of his dark hair. She swore her son would be happily content to never bathe sometimes; boys will be boys. Though, she much preferred him spending time with Lura as opposed to some of the other neighbor boys his age. When he did that, he would come home completely covered in mud most times, and even brought home a frog once or twice, a small garden snake once too.

Mieta attempted to help clean up, but Sharall badgered her into sitting back down. The two women talked, of mundane things mostly, while the children listened in the other room, in rapt attention, as Inrir told them a story—he was an excellent storyteller.

Mieta glanced into the room over her shoulder in a lull in conversation. Inrir was making gestures as he talked, whispering when the story called for quiet, and his voice boomed with the tale as necessary. Lura held Lady in her lap, and she sat on the floor, eyes wide with wonder. Leto lay on the floor, looking up at Inrir, but as if he weren't really seeing them. He was living out the story more in his mind; he didn't need all of the gestures and effects. As a girl, Mieta had been much the same; whatever she dreamed up in her mind was always better than anything the storyteller could try to paint with words.

She wished she could dream up a different reality. One without this approaching battle. She wanted to watch her children grow up, and get married, and have children of their own. She feared the next few days.

A hand touched her arm gently, and she jumped, but it was only Sharall. The elf smiled down at the other. "It will be all right," she said. "We must not give in to despair."

Mieta could only shake her head. How could she not give in to the despair that was all around them? Even the children could sense it; she heard it in their uncertain laughter. Despair clutched at her heart like a cancerous thing and only crept in deeper, spreading its deadly touch to all it came to.

"I fear that despair is all we have left," she whispered after a moment of silence. Sharall didn't know what to say. Mieta rose to her feet. "It's late; I must get Leto to bed."

Sharall caught her sleeve before she left the room. She looked cross. "Don't you _dare_ let Leto see you like this," she hissed. "You're the adult—act like it."

Mieta blinked as if she had been struck. Act like what? What was she doing? _Giving in to her despair_. Her son would sense it. She had to be the adult, she had to be a pillar of strength and support to her son. Else, she was no mother at all. She composed herself, nodded with thanks to her friend. "Thank you, Sharall. I needed to hear that."

Sharall's hand dropped away at her side. "Don't we all. Be safe."

"You too." Mieta hugged her farewell, and a part of her wondered if it would be the last time. They were all going to die, or worse. Her mouth felt dry at the prospect. There was still a bit of tea left in her cup. It was cold by now, but welcome when she drained the cup. She swallowed her cold lump of fear and walked out into the parlor as if nothing at all was wrong. "Darling, it's time to go."

"The story isn't finished yet," he complained, but began to rouse from his spot on the floor.

"You've heard the tale," she told him, beckoning for him to rise. Lura clasped his hand as he passed, and he squeezed her hand back.

"Bye-bye," she called over her shoulder. The others said their farewells.

As they walked back to their house, Mieta asked, "Did you have fun?"

He glanced back at the house with the red door, spying the garden behind it through a small alley—just a glimpse in passing. He looked back up at his mother. "We played in the garden, and Inrir taught us a game."

"What game?" she said, her real thoughts elsewhere.

Her son either didn't notice her tone of voice, or chose not to acknowledge it. He shrugged. "Well—he made chores into a game. We had to fill a bucket, with water from the pond. We each had a bucket, and cup, and had to race back and forth to fill it with the cups."

And probably got water all over themselves as a result. "What did you two do after the game, when you were soaked to the bone? I bet you'd look cute in Lura's dresses," she went on.

Leto fumed. "I wore one of Inrir's shirts—tunics-until my clothes were dry, and we played inside." His eyes wandered off to the corner of their small front garden. There was a tiny grave marker, and that was what he was looking at. He sensed the despair and impending death, just like the animals.

A bird was in that grave, she remembered. Leto's cousin on their father's side had come over to visit, and his father had given them both a sling shot. The two had ran off happily to play, and had had a pretty good time shooting at birds in the yard, until one of them actually killed one. The game had seemed fun, but when the two boys saw the tiny crushed body of the sparrow, they had both fallen deathly silent.

_Ah, their first encounter with death_, Mieta thought. One moment, the bird was alive and well, the next dead and cold, and the two had witnessed it and caused it. It was one thing to talk about something, something else to do it.

She unlocked the door, and stopped and looked down at him when she saw him still staring at the grave. "Leto?" she called to him.

He looked up at her, slowly, as if being pulled from deep thoughts. What deep thoughts could a toddler have? "Mama… are we going to die?" he asked her.

She felt her eyes threaten to water, a lump sticking in her throat. She didn't know what to say. She couldn't answer him. She just couldn't bear it. She said nothing at all, and lifted him up, off the ground, holding him close to her. She wished she could hold him close to her forever, and keep him safe forever. She would do anything to keep her son from falling into harm, do anything to keep him safe. And she feared that she could do nothing to prevent either from befalling him.

What trials lay in his future?

"Mama, don't cry," she heard him whisper as his little arms wrapped around her neck. She hadn't realized that she had begun to cry. And he shouldn't be comforting her. A child should never comfort their parent.

She sniffed, cleared her throat, and swiped at her eyes with one sleeve, holding her son in the other arm. She opened the door, and carried him through. She kicked it shut uncaringly, like she was always yelling at him not to do.

"You slammed the door!" he admonished her.

She laughed, all her fears and grief forgotten for just a moment, and she wished it would stay that way for an eternity. She kept laughing, then, desperately trying to never let go of the moment. She swung him around, dancing around the room, all the while laughing in the dark, and soon he was laughing too.

She sang when she couldn't laugh any longer, for her fear. High, happy notes, and songs that were silly, all the while continuing to dance. She had always loved to dance, and she danced about the room with her son, her graceful feet spinning in never-ending circles, figures, complicated steps and simple ones alike. "You're getting a bath tonight," she informed him in a sing-song voice as she danced into another room. She fervently hoped her gift of dance would be passed to at least one of her children.

He made a face. "It's late—don't I need to go to bed?"

"Nonsense. Bedtime is for babies," she told him, setting him down on the floor. "Help me with the water, will you?" While he tried to escape this chore, she naturally wouldn't allow it, and he grudgingly helped her haul water at the late hour.

They put the water in the copper-plated tub and she had him help stoke a fire under it to heat it, and while waiting, she pulled her child up in her lap, listening to the night. He yawned, and she rested her cheek against the top of his head. It was as if… by staying awake the night would stretch longer and she could hold on to the precious things in her life for that much longer. Carefully, she tended the bath and sent Leto to get the soap. When he had taken longer than he should have, she went to look for him. She knew he had gone in to the supply room, because he had left the door ajar, but the soap was still there. She felt a ghost of a smile touch her lips, her eyes shining with adoration for her mischievous child, but she made her voice mock-angry. "Le-to?" she called. "Where'd you go?"

She listened for some kind of response. Three-year olds weren't known for stealth. She heard a very muffled shuffling noise, around the corner. She wandered from the supply closet, and banged about a bit in the kitchen, then tip-toed round the corner. She heard it again, and, triumphant, pulled the cabinet door open.

"No!" he cried in alarm as she reached toward him. She caught him as he tried to escape. She picked him up with ease. He continued to struggle, so she grinned maliciously and tossed him over one shoulder. His legs kicked, and he continued to yell as if the water was poison, but not so loudly as to disturb the neighbors, or she would have given him a swat.

She picked up a towel with her free hand, paying no heed to her son's kicking legs. She hummed to herself to help drown out the sound of his complaints as she went to fetch the soap. She knelt and set him down on the floor. She snatched onto his collar as he tried to bolt again.

"I don't need a bath!" he insisted.

She kissed him on the cheek, and pretended not to hear his complaints as she unbelted his tunic. He struggled, but not overmuch; he knew better, he just didn't like it. When she had stripped off his clothes, she held on to his wrist with one firm hand, and tested the water with the other. It had cooled enough by now. She had to let go of him to roll up her sleeves, but a glare kept him rooted to the spot. She picked him up, and he kicked more and tried harder to escape, but she had both hands on him, and she shoved him into the tub before he could manage. He crossed his arms, indignant. She giggled, and splashed him with the water. He made a face, then grinned, and splashed her back.

She didn't normally allow such nonsense in the house, but… tonight… She splashed, and laughed, and her son had her dress absolutely soaked by the time they had both stopped. She contemplated just peeling it off, but, no; it was all right. Mieta picked up the cake of soap and attacked her son with it, making monster noises as she tickled him. She dunked him under, and he came up gasping. She smirked from the edge of the tub.

He scowled at her. "Mama!" he complained.

She shoved him playfully. "When you have children, you can dunk them too," she told him. He seemed thoughtful at that, then splashed her for revenge. She hauled him out of the tub, and toweled him off. She shooed him off to his room to dress in his nightclothes. She mopped up the spilled water on the floor, sighing when she saw that his clean clothes had gotten wet as well. Still wet herself, she hung them up outside to dry on the line—she doubted it would rain tonight, and she would take it in later, best not to leave it in a messy wet heap all night. If it still mattered by then.

She came back inside and peeled her dress off. She stepped into the tub, and sunk up to her neck. The water was no longer steaming, but the warmth felt good all the same. Mieta closed her eyes, thinking about the child growing in her womb. She hoped it was a girl this time—she didn't know what she would do with two boys!

She considered possible names for her as she enjoyed the silence of the night. Perhaps after her late mother? That would be nice—Varania.

_Varania…_

She heard little footsteps tromping over to her. She sunk lower in the tub, and decided to ignore him until he said something.

"Hey," he whined. "Get up."

She opened one eye. "Why?"

He pouted, and she had to try not to smile. "I want you to tell me a story before I go to sleep," he said, quite seriously.

She smiled a little. "Give Mama a minute, all right?"

He huffed, and turned, running out of the room. Why did toddlers have so much energy? She groaned, and washed off quickly, then got out of the tub. She toweled herself off, and wrapped herself in the towel to get to her room. She put on an old shirt and a pair of pants and called Leto to help her empty the tub. It didn't require help, but she still pretended it did. It emptied itself into a drain outside, which would empty into the larger gutter on the street.

She wandered into her son's room. He had lit a lamp, but was standing on a small stool to look out the window at the night sky. She pointed up at a constellation, the one he was looking at. "That's the warrior, my love," she told him.

"I know," he said. He looked up at her, reaching his arms up for her to pick him up. She bent to lift him. She carried him to his bed, and set him down gently. She curled up with him, holding him close, stroking his hair, as she told him a story of knights and dragons, a witch in disguise. She told him tale after tale, until she sensed that he had fallen asleep. She kissed his brow gently, and eased away from him, making an effort not to disturb him. She rearranged his blankets, and closed the window, blew out the light. She looked back at him before she left the room.

He slept so peacefully, dreaming. She wondered, _What of?_ _What do you dream, my son?_

She smiled to herself. To be like his father, she imagined—strong, handsome, a warrior. Not many elves were in other parts of the world, she had heard, but this city was primarily elven. As a result, there wasn't an alienage like in other places she had heard about, but it sounded awful—a slum where elves were segregated from humans and dwarves. The Qunari wouldn't have tolerated it anyway; all were equal in the Qun.

That was one thing she liked very much about it—everyone was welcome, everyone played a role, and everyone was, essentially, the same. Race made no difference, background made no difference.

But then… she wondered if anything in life really made much difference.

She went to her own bed, weary and tired, but too fretful to sleep. It couldn't hurt to lie down for a time though.

But, though she tossed and turned, she did finally find sleep, though her dreams were troubled, and frightening, and when she woke in the night, she couldn't recall what they were except for the fear it caused her. It made her rise from her bed, and check on her son, still fast asleep. It had been silly to be so frightened. She listened to the quiet.

She heard a click as the door unlocked, causing her to jump, but when she heard the light footsteps, and a small sigh, she knew it was Calias. It must be earlier than she had suspected.

She headed down the stairs to embrace him. He looked bone-weary, but welcomed the sight of her. She held him close. In his arms, she felt safe, and only there.

They kissed, and still he held her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What do you think of 'Varania?'" she asked him.

He kissed the top of her head. "For our next child? What if it's a boy?" he teased, as he let go of her and walked farther into the house. She trailed after him.

"Then we can call him 'Vinathe,'" she said.

He frowned. "I have a cousin by that name—I think he's dead."

She rolled her eyes. "Died last spring, you lout."

He nodded thoughtfully, walking up the stairs. "Either one then."

Mieta felt like sighing herself. He had no real opinion on the names of their children. He had allowed her to choose Leto's name too—and she had named him after his warrior great-grandfather, of course, a namesake he delighted in hearing about oftentimes.

Calias yanked his clothing off, leaving it in a messy heap on the floor, and fell into bed without further comment. She decided to lay with him for a while. It would be nice, for once. She slid into bed beside him, her arms wrapping around her husband. She heard him sigh gently.

"I love you," he whispered, and she knew he was falling asleep already.

She kissed his shoulder lovingly. "And I you." She slept for only a while longer, then woke to make breakfast. Leto woke as she started cooking, and she put him to work immediately.

_Today is the day_, she thought as the two breakfasted on pastries and tea. Calias rarely came down for breakfast; he normally slept through it, but she saved him a few of the pastries. She sent Leto out to play after making sure everything he was wearing was matching, and went to her small work room. She was a tailor by trade, though her specialty was in hats and embroidery. She had a couple orders to work on, and doing something busy would keep her mind off of the town's impending doom.

She watched outside from the window as Leto went chasing by. She had told him not to stray far, but had long ago resolved that children didn't always listen.

The morning wore on into noon, and Leto came back hungry and eager for lunch. Mieta was already cooking, and had him wait, and she made him recite a lesson while she set it out.

By then, Calias came down and joined them for lunch. Her son adored his father, almost idolizing him. And why not? He was a good man. Mieta marveled at how alike the two looked. To a point, all elves looked a bit alike, but one couldn't too easily be mistaken for another—unlike Qunari—they all looked the same to her. If Leto had had his father's auburn locks and his eyes were slightly different shade, they would look just alike.

Rather, Leto had inherited his hair from Mieta's side, which all had dark hair, though rarely, if ever, the true black in his hair that was so seldom found on a person. Almost everyone on Calias's side of the family was a brunette—himself being an unusual exception. In the summer, his hair looked more red than auburn.

They were just cleaning up from lunch when a deep, resounding, desperate blast from the horns blew. One blast for enemy sighted. The sound made her pause, made her heart be still for a moment in fear.

But one sound of the horns meant that they were hours off still; plenty of time to mount the defense—A second blast peeled through the air. Mieta dropped the plate she was holding, her face going pale. The plate broke at her feet, and she scarcely noticed it. Leto peered up at his parents, searching their pale, silent faces for an answer that wasn't coming. _A second for attack._

To her, the horns were sounding their destruction, their doom, their defeat, their death.

Calias, though, was moving before the echoes died, running upstairs. Mieta grasped her son's hand, not knowing what else to do.

"Mama, what's happening?" he asked her.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. She wanted to lie to him. She wanted to tell him that it was nothing, that everything would be all right and nothing in their lives would ever change. But that wasn't the truth.

She turned to him, kneeling in front of him so they were both of the same height. "Whatever happens, I love you very much, all right?" she told him. That did nothing to reassure him of what was going on, and she could see it in his irresolute eyes. "Schavalis is under attack."

"What…" His sentence broke off as Calias came rushing down the stairs, and Leto broke from his mother's grip, running to his father, who paused at the sight of his son. "Where are you going?"

Calias looked pained at the question, but not at the asking of it. He bent to one knee before his son, his leather armor creaking. "I go to defend the city," he told him, resting his gloved hand on top of his child's head.

"But I want to go with you!"

Calias shook his head. "No. You stay here, and look after your mother," he told him. Leto looked at him, his eyes wide and frightened. Her husband forced a smile on to his face. "You remember the story I told you about your great-grandfather?"

Leto nodded suddenly. "The one you named me after," he said.

The warrior nodded solemnly. "That's right. Did I ever tell you that he wielded a great two-handed sword?"

The child's eyes were filled with wonder more than fear now. "How did he do that?"

He smiled crookedly. "A lot of strength, and practice. But before he did that, he had to learn how to wait, and _when_ to attack, when to defend, and when to wait. It's not always about attacking—sometimes knowing the right _time_ to attack is more important than anything else." He touched his son's nose. "Now is the time to look after your mother."

Leto paused, considering the weight of his father's words, then gave a single nod of consent. "I understand, Father."

He muffed his hair affectionately. "I know." He hugged him close suddenly, and looked to Mieta. She rushed to her family, and embraced them both.

When he set his son down, he turned to his wife, and kissed her tenderly. He whispered "I love you" in her ear, and she did likewise. One last kiss, and he had to run from the house. She locked the door behind him, wondering if it would be the last time she ever saw Calias.


	4. Chapter 4: Nobility

Newlyn wasn't part of the main assaulting force. He was to be held back, just in case. It was all well enough by his standards. He had no taste for this insanity.

He had listened in shocked silence when he had heard explained what they were doing. To his ears, it was all but madness. Why? Why attack this place? They had nothing worth taking. They were not rich, not an enemy outpost. They were a farming and fishing community, nothing more. If their armies were ill-supplied he might even consider this attack, if not in the right (was anything they did in the right?), at least justified in a sense.

But that wasn't the case. They were attacking simply to attack, to seize. He understood that it helped to cut off the Qunari supplies, but this was hardly a main supplier. But, his superiors reasoned, they could make up for this by capturing as many as possible from the battle and selling the remaining as slaves. There was a lot of coin in that, he knew. And they _were_ funding a war.

But…

He wondered if it couldn't simply be out of spite, considering that the current elves living there were descendents of slaves—property that couldn't be reclaimed in the past for one reason or another. Many of his fellows saw it as simply that; going to reclaim lost property.

He had grown up with slaves in his household. Maker, there were slaves in the _army_ used to fight the Qunari, be it as fodder for arrows, fletching arrows, or even wielding a sword in battle, they served. He had never thought much of it—and why would he? He hadn't been raised to think for himself, hadn't been raised to look at an elf and see a person. Rather, he had seen nothing at all, not really. He hadn't _seen_ because he hadn't _wished_ to see it. He had been trained in the art of the sword, horsemanship, and groomed for knighthood. He had been anointed, even, but it hadn't meant anything, not really. A knighthood didn't make a man, and certainly didn't make him noble.

But then he had met Kiersten. She had a way of looking at the world that he had never seen. She told him that it wasn't about the shell their body inhabited; it was about their soul. She said that everything had a soul, and that the soul is what we should see, not the shell. It was such a beautiful thought, and she was so lovely, and her spirit and her heart burned with such a passionate intensity that he could do nothing save fall hopelessly in love with her.

He so missed her. When he returned to Tevinter, they were supposed to be wed. He could scarcely wait for the day.

Newlyn watched the smoke rise from the city. It was burning. He could smell the acrid stench of the smoke all the way from here. Horses pawed restlessly at the ground, anxious by the sight of the fire. Leather creaked as men shifted in their saddles. He reprimanded that thought—there were a few women too.

He couldn't hear it from here, but he could imagine the screaming, glass breaking, the sound of men and beasts dying. And he couldn't smell it either, but he could imagine the stench of burning flesh, viscera, blood, and shit that came with the smell of battle. He didn't have to imagine the sights, though. He had seen enough towns of similar size after a battle—it was terrible.

Kiersten had not approved of him being a soldier, not really. But he had told her that if they did not press the attack, the Qunari would press their own, and the cities they claimed in Seheron had to be defended. She had consented, and told him to keep them from their homeland, but only on those grounds. He could not control what he was ordered to do though.

The battle had gone on for hours. It had to be mostly finished by now; the town hadn't offered that much resistance, not to a mage's power.

A small contingent, battered, came limping back to the force scattered, seeking medical aid. The two mages who had been held back were slaves themselves actually, and saw to the wounded. Newlyn was close enough to hear some of the wounded complaining.

"… then the apostate resorted to blood magic, and killed half my men," the man grumbled to the superior officer he was reporting to.

"You apprehended her then?" he asked placidly.

He snorted. "She was a maleficar. We killed her." _So are most of the magisters,_ Newlyn thought icily. That was the rumor, at least.

"Close enough," he snorted with a nod, then gave the order for the remaining forces to move out.

Newlyn fell into line glumly, and mildly resented his horse for being eager. Why should anyone be eager for this? It wasn't battle any longer; it was slaughter and plunder. They weren't brigands. They were supposed to be an army.

He had begun to dream of serving noble lords, with noble ideals, as a child. Doing something that was right, even before he really knew what "right" was. Defending the helpless, he assumed. This was none of that.

He felt his soul become more blackened and corrupt by the day. He felt that he himself was corrupt and beyond redemption for the deeds he had committed in the name of his homeland.

Funny, he had once never thought about the war. It had been so distant to him, after all, and as a child, a thing that did not touch him. His father had been wealthy, wealthy enough to keep him from getting drafted, and his other sons, despite Newlyn's knighthood. Well, that had all ended when he had been killed outright, his property and finances seized. Treason, they said, but never really gave a reason. Sometimes, Newlyn wondered.

He had to join the army to survive. He would get enough money to marry his beloved Kiersten. That was all that mattered—providing for her. Or, so he tried to tell himself. It would be so much easier if he was as selfish and unfeeling as his fellows seemed to be.

There was a brief skirmish in an alley, and they joined the fray in another, but his primary duty lay in helping end the skirmishes left to the city. Those were put down in short enough order. A few captives were taken, to later be executed, he suspected.

He rode on, killing any too wounded to walk. It was a butcher's work, and he wanted to be as dispassionate as he was supposed to be. As it was, he couldn't look at them, and tried not to hear their pleas for mercy.

One man was dying in a pool of blood, coughing and drowning in his life's blood in a tragic irony. He had ended it quickly, and moved on.

At another place, he found a man—he didn't know if it were elf or human with the helmet and armor, and frankly, it didn't matter—arm hacked at the elbow, bleeding out, but whispering names. He imagined that they were the names of parents, a sweetheart maybe, perhaps children. He killed that man too.

Maimed people, dismembered limbs, entrails strewn across the road. Some the townsfolk, some Tevinter soldiers—but they were all naught but bloodied corpses now. He saw charred bodies, the ones the mages had gotten to, and others that looked like they had been encased in ice, their limbs just falling off of them like the fastest of frostbite. He saw one woman, barely a woman at that, with her face caved in, an eye hanging arbitrarily from its socket, the bone around her eye crushed. At first, he only looked at the body with a critical eye, and then saw the other eye track his movement. He felt something like fear, disgust, and horror clutch at his guts, making his stomach tighten. It was a mercy to kill this girl. He could only imagine her pain, her horror, at what must have happened to her in her desperate rush to flee to somewhere safer. Perhaps the afterlife was safer. He thought he would have nightmares of these horrors he had seen over the past two years to last him a lifetime… but he hoped not. How he slept at night, he didn't know.

Surely, the horrors of what he had seen would be enough to keep him awake. And if not those horrors, then surely the ones that he had had to commit under orders. But… No; he slept. He had tried not to see, and thought of his beloved Kiersten whenever he could. Sometimes, it was her memory alone that got him through the day.

Moving on through the city, he came across a woman, delirious with the butchery, and covered in blood. She staggered, but he wasn't sure if it was the delirium or if it was her own wounds; he couldn't see.

She saw him, and froze, her lips moving, but no words forming.

"She's mad—kill her," his captain barked.

Newlyn approached her, drawing his sword to slay another innocent. The dying were one thing to him, but he counted the innocent he had had to kill in the name of duty, and tried to give them the dignity of remembering them.

Her hair was long, and tangled, and might have once been brown if not for the blood. Her eyes were haunted, and her lips continued to move. As he came near, she backed up a step, tripping and falling gracelessly to the ground. Her hand touched a man's spilled entrails, and she shrieked away from it, shivering with fear. "No…" she pleaded.

His heart panged with guilt. He didn't want to do this. Maker, he didn't want to do this. "I'm sorry," he told her. "Maker rest your soul."

"No!" she cried, weeping now, her hot tears tracking through the blood on her face. "Please! Mercy!"

He hesitated, but knew that she was mad. He would be punished if he didn't follow through his own orders. And was death worse than slavery? He didn't know. He just didn't know. He looked into her terrified blue eyes as he stabbed his sword into her chest. He felt he owed her that much. She stared at the blade in open shock, and died as he ripped the blade free. Her body crumbled to the ground, her face falling heavily into the innards of the dead man beside her.

_One more sin to add to the many_, he thought, and turned away from it, though the woman deserved more.

They all deserved more.

His secondary task, after the minor mess was cleaned up, was to root out the living. He was assigned a certain district, and went with a contingent of other men. All valuables would be heaped into a cart, all potential slaves marched to a warehouse by the docks. As sad as it seemed, it was routine.

Most of it was pretty methodical, and many houses were empty already, so he just had to find any jewelry or expensive silks and heave it into the cart in a manner of speaking. He couldn't bear it when he found a person though.

He wanted to tell them to stay quiet, to hide. But he knew better. They found them eventually—always. The army would stay for a few days, patrolling and listening, the mages and the dogs alike hunting out any who might be hiding. Those ones were beaten, then brought with the others.

Newlyn had learned that the hard way, and in the end, the service he had thought he had given to one young girl had been no service at all.

And so it was. He broke the lock on a house with a blue door, a garden in the front. Some of the herbs in it might be useful—he should check them on his way out. There was a tiny grave in the corner of the garden. Maybe it had been a child's pet.

He wasn't destructive on his trek through the house. Some were; they smashed anything they couldn't take, either out of anger, spite, or just because they liked breaking what others had once called home. He respected it though. This was a person's home once. It held memories, a life—once. But no longer, maybe never again.

The ashes in the fireplace were cold, though he could smell the smoke from the other part of town still, though the fires were mostly put out. Mages were useful—he would give them that.

There was food here, and he would take anything the army had said they needed to resupply. He left the larder open. The animals would get to it eventually, and he supposed that was better than nothing, though he would take whatever wouldn't spoil quickly. He opened cupboards, idly searching.

The house seemed empty enough, he supposed. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment.

_Oh, Kiersten. You would hate me if you knew what I did…_

His heart felt heavy with sorrow as he treaded through the house. He opened another door. It was a child's room, and that made him swallow in grief. Another child's life, so full of promise and hope—destroyed. He wondered if the child could be dead. He thought of the other dead children he had passed, their tiny corpses cold and stiffening, some held to their parent's breasts, both dead in each other's arms.

Knowing he would find nothing, but didn't mind stalling, he fished through the drawers, and wondered what the child was like. A boy, obviously. He imagined that if he were to hunt more, he would find secret troves of things like bird's nests and dried frogs—things he had collected as a child.

Kiersten wanted to have children one day. She told him that she'd like two boys and a girl. He thought she even had names picked out. Sometimes she spoke of it in her letters to him, how she wanted so badly to be married and begin bearing his children as soon as possible.

Was it selfish?

He shut the drawer, and put both his hands on the dresser, inhaling deeply once, then twice. He felt like he would be sick.

It had to be selfish to do this to other people—shatter their lives, their hopes, their dreams—and continue to hold and cherish his own. Was he no better than his fellow soldiers?

He shook his head, as if to clear it of his troubling thoughts, and stepped away from the chest of drawers. He moved in to the other room, the parents' room, no doubt. There were clothes on the floor, thrown about carelessly, which hardly surprised him. He found a bit of jewelry, and dutifully stole it, as instructed. Though he still felt like a thief. They called it the plunders of war, but it was still petty thievery, and no less in his eyes.

There was a silk dress here too—maybe a wedding dress once-and he took that as well. He took his bundle into the main room, and glanced at the door he hadn't explored. He set the bundle down, and opened it. It led downstairs, into what he imagined to be the cellar. Maybe there was some wine down there—he could use a drink right now.

He found a lantern, and lit it. He carried it high as he trod down the stairs, all the while weary. People acted strangely in desperate situations—even the most ladylike of women would attack when they were scared enough.

He heard a small muffled noise, and paused. He listened again. Rats? That was entirely possible. The board he stepped on creaked, and he heard it again, faintly. He continued down, holding the light above his head to cast as wide a spectrum as possible.

He shone it in the corners, around the casks and trunks. He sorted through the trunks, finding nothing of particular import. Supplies in some cases. One of the people living here had been a tailor. Still, cloth was valuable enough in war, for uniforms and bandages if nothing else. He shoved the trunk to the bottom of the flight of stairs, and checked the others. The one with the cloth was the only one worth taking.

He almost left, then something seemed to nag at him. He turned back, and went around a dark corner. His eyes softened when he saw the woman, clutching her son tightly, under the stairwell.

The boy turned and looked at him, staring at him innocently. They were both elves, which at one point in his life meant something—meant they were a subspecies to humans at that point, and worth nothing of value, except as slaves. He didn't believe that any more. They were souls, just like Kiersten said. Souls that he was sentencing to slavery.

_He has no idea what's going on, not really_, Newlyn reflected. He could really use a drink right about now. _He has no idea what's going to happen to him and his mother._

Newlyn kept his voice soft. "Ma'am, please, get up and follow me out." She didn't move, just stared at him as if she didn't understand his tongue. It was certainly _possible_ but definitely not probable. More than likely, she was just too frightened to do anything. "Please," he found himself pleading with her. _Be reasonable!_ "The dogs will find you, or the mages. Please, ma'am. I'll try to keep you and your son together, but I can't guarantee someone else will do the same." He found himself wanting to choke on his own words. He must seem like such a… monster. A murderer, a slaver, a rapist, a thief—all those things and worse. "Please, they'll beat you."

Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes were unbelieving, either of what he said, or of what was happening, but the end result was the same, so the means made no difference. Newlyn reached a hand out for her, to help her up. She didn't even seem to see it.

It was the boy who pried himself away from her grasp, and from the looks of it, it wasn't an easy task. She made a small squeaking sound, reaching out to him, but seemed otherwise frozen in place. The boy stared up at him, and Newlyn had the odd feeling that the child was judging him, weighing his soul.

It made him strangely uncomfortable, as if the child really could see all of his faults that he felt so clearly. Like all of his sins were laid bare to the world. All he wanted to do was cover them, hide them, bury them so they could never be found. Life didn't work that way.

"Mama, we have to go," the boy said, looking back at her. Slowly, his green-eyed gaze went back to Newlyn's face.

She trembled, but her son's voice seemed to give her the courage to stand. It seemed for a moment that she would stumble, but she was surprisingly steady. He ushered the two out, and carried the chest up the stairs after them.

He started to push them to the door, then stopped. His sense of morals was screaming at him to leave them be, but he had tried that once. It had ended in bloodshed and pain.

He stopped and looked back at them. "Get something to eat—bring whatever you can carry, and change clothes—travel clothes, if you have them." He closed his eyes, as if in pain. "Please hurry."

The woman paused, and he felt her gently touch his shoulder, reassuringly. Why was she comforting _him_? He was a monster, he was the one ruining their lives… "You're a good man," she whispered, and took her son down the hall. He followed them partway, but gave them the privacy to change their clothing. The elven woman helped her son into his clothes, and Newlyn paced restlessly as he waited. She took her son into her room while she changed her clothes, and he trailed after them into the pantry. She filled a pack with breads and cheeses, and another smaller one that she gave to her son.

She looked up at Newlyn, her eyes filled with dread and despair. He wished it were not him, but others might have raped her in front of her son and cast them both out to be rounded up and brought to the warehouses that they were keeping the captives. In fact… it happened.

He put his bundle—the silk dress and the jewelry, into the chest, and carried it out the door, the two elves in tow. It was only in the light of the dying sun that he realized the woman was pregnant. A new pang of guilt washed over him. Another life he had doomed, and right from the beginning.

The man in charge yelled at him about the packs of food he had allowed them to bring, but Newlyn didn't back down. He defended his decision to let them have it, and in the end, it wasn't worth debating. He volunteered to be one of the four men taking the people found in this district to the warehouse.

Two of the others were downright cruel, the other simply unkind but didn't care enough to be cruel. Newlyn tried to keep the pregnant woman away from them by bidding her to walk closer to himself. He didn't know what else he could do for her.

But Kiersten would want him to do something.

He took it upon himself to shepherd them into the warehouse, and looked after them sorrowfully as he locked the door, putting the heavy bar across it. He sighed, shaking his head, and trudged to a different area of the town for more pillaging and herding.

They spent a few days there, collecting the rest of the people—mostly elves—and questioning them.

The questioning process was… gruesome, to say the very least.

First, a random captive was selected. It had been the humans and dwarves first, who were normally in positions of higher power, and so it was so here as well. The one captured Qunari, naturally, had been tortured separately and put to death when he wouldn't talk. The captain had little patience for their kind.

The humans, though, he questioned, relentlessly—over and over again and especially any of those in positions of power. Some disdain was held for humans who lived together with elves, particularly when there wasn't so much as an alienage. Elves, it was taught, were an inferior race. But the questions, overall, were simple enough, and frequently produced nothing of value. Were they hiding anything? Were they hiding any_one_? Resources? What did they know?

Two a day, perhaps three if one didn't last very long, but all the captives were brought out to watch, which cowed many of them and rooted out the more aggressive of them. It was… war, after all. Information was valuable, and they did have to feed the army, so anything of value was looted. From a logical standpoint, it almost made sense, and that was when Newlyn knew he had spent too much time with the army.

Newlyn spotted that pregnant elf and her son amongst the crowd on the last day, the day they were executing captives.


	5. Chapter 5: Blood and Flowers

Mieta had done her best to make sure that her son hadn't seen the questioning of the past few days, but it was hard to keep such a young child still and in one place for hours while it went on, and he looked every time the one being questioned screamed, or tried to; he was much too small to see. He asked her what was happening, but she simply refused to answer, and that alone made him grow silent, left to his own imagination. She wondered if that were worse.

In the crowd, she had seen little Lura and Sharall, but they must have been kept in a different warehouse, because she never saw them there. Though, she couldn't bring herself to approach them in the brief expanse of time that they were outside. What, after all, was there to say?

It was becoming so routine that she could have asked the questions, and she knew all the answers. No, they knew nothing, and that was the most important thing.

Though, rarely, they did find a few things of value—a silver cup, and a couple of old gold coins, a ruby ring, maybe a few other trinkets—locations of people who might still be hiding, and the direction of those who had fled. But what the Tevinters really wanted—information—no one had that. One of the city officials did admit, under torture, that they had been slowly converting their people to the Qun. Nothing else though, nothing worth staying and torturing people for—certainly nothing worth murder. But what did she know? She didn't know if she… really knew much of anything anymore.

And giving up these items never won the captives anything either; they died in the end. Everyone picked for questioning died. She prayed it was not herself, as she was sure that everyone else did as well, including those that died.

She had heard tales of such brutality, but it astonished her to find that these things could be true. She couldn't believe that such a thing was just… allowed to happen. How could a divine Maker allow this to exist? How could the Qun condone it? How could their simple _souls_ bear what they were doing? Did they not see? Did they choose not to? How does a man look at another living being and hurt them so, and kill them? _How_?

Early yesterday morning, a young girl, scarcely thirteen, had been selected. The mother had cried out in anguish, and pleaded to go in her stead. Rather, they took both of them, tortured the girl to make the mother talk. There was nothing to say, though—and that was that. They were both dead now, their bodies dumped in a ditch somewhere on the other side of town, where the soldiers wouldn't have to smell the rot quite so much.

She supposed that the Tevinters, in truth, didn't really care that much if they gained or lost anything. She supposed it must be nice to be in one place for a while, to rest their horses and their own feet on their land and their houses.

She wondered, at times, if these humans were any better than Darkspawn. They drank, and cursed, and killed—and seemed to take such pleasures in their corruption. It was… madness. Mieta felt as if the entire world had simply gone mad. Something like this… it just couldn't be, could it?

But she knew better. She wished she could simply believe that she was having a nightmare, or anything else, but this was real. _Real! _And her mind could only just grasp the idea that such ghastly things as she had witnessed could be true.

Mieta held Leto close. It wasn't so difficult this morning; he was becoming more bored with the entire thing more than anything else. Tired, even. He often just sat on the ground, leaning against one of her legs, and picked idly at the dirt. She didn't know what to do.

She knew, or at least had an inkling, of what awaited she and her son. If there was anything at all to be done, anything… She had to stop this from happening. She had to escape somehow. She couldn't let them both be cast into a life of slavery. She looked down at her son in abject misery. He would never know anything else. If she didn't do something… there would be nothing else.

But what could she do?

Today, the prisoners in another warehouse were taken. These were the captives from the battle, the ones wounded but not so much that they could not walk of their own volition. They were chained together, and she could hear the heavy chains clinking as they were marched outside in the morning sun.

The sun was bright that day, cheerful. The wind blew in a pleasant ocean breeze that helped with the faint smell of rot. The Tevinters had simply piled the dead somewhere. Some heads, they put on pikes after dipping them in tar, but most were just left to rot, a feast for the birds and other vermin. Those particular tarred heads were the officials of the town, the ones in charge, of course.

Those dead had been happy once. Farmers, laborers, healers, soldiers, wives, children, husbands, parents—all. They had been leading their own lives, with their futures a bright spark ahead of them. Now they were rotting corpses. She hoped their souls found peace at least.

She looked up at the men being led across the wooden platform to be beheaded. Some she recognized, and sorrow touched her heart to see it so as they were put to the block. Not all of them were truly warriors. There was the city guard, of course, but many were in truth farmers or laborers, and were part of the city militia. They had no full-time soldiers as such. Still, others were not even in the militia. …The Tevinters emphatically did not want slaves that could read. They had asked Mieta if she could read too. She had been so terrified that she couldn't even answer, and they had just passed her by. Now, she knew to pretend that she couldn't. It was hard to pretend to be illiterate, but possible.

The axe made a dull thumping sound that made Leto jump. After a while, he raised on tip-toe, trying to see as more people were stirring, gasping, others weeping for their men. The boy was frustrated.

"What's going on?" he asked her.

Mieta shook her head. "They're executing people, baby," she told him, putting a comforting hand on the back of his head.

He moved away from her, his eyes narrowing. "Father?" he wondered, half a whisper.

Before she could stop him, he was running through the crowd. No one stopped him, and he was small enough to dart around and go where she could not follow, though she tried, calling out to him desperately. She pushed her way forward. Another thunk of the axe made her cringe inwardly, and a second, quick thunk reminded her that the blade wasn't as sharp as it had been earlier. Often, it took more than one strike to behead a person… and they felt it. She finally caught sight of his alabaster hair. She reached toward him, but someone stepped between them. She wove around, nearly panicked. What if the Tevinters…?

She could not bear to finish the thought; she had to find him.

It felt like an eternity before her hand clenched tightly around his arm, angry more than anything else. She knelt beside him, down to his level. "Leto," she hissed, but his eyes were on the line of chained men, now that they were finally close enough to see. There, four people back, was Calias, and her words died on her tongue. _No…_ She had thought he would have died at the wall. She had… hoped he had escaped, but death in combat would have been better. There was glory and honour in that. Now, now he was a martyr.

His green-eyed gaze found them, and the three looked back at each other, silent. She couldn't even hear the crowd all around her. She was scarcely aware of anything but his eyes, his face caked with dried blood and dirt, his soiled hair, tattered clothing. He looked bruised, cut, with a split lip, and she did notice that he leaned more to one side as he stood, and limped when he moved forward in the line. Had they hurt him? Had they tortured him too? She was frightened to think of it.

Leto took a step forward, and her grip on his arm tightened. "But… Papa is…" he looked at his mother, and she saw the first flicker of understanding in his eyes, but a refusal to believe. His eyes flicked to the chopping block, widening at the sight of the bloodied axe, and back at his father. His mouth opened, then closed.

Mieta wanted to cry for him, for that innocence that was suddenly lost and shattered, and there was no way to bring it back. No way to hold on to it, to pick up the pieces and make it whole again. The boy went limp in her grasp, but she knew him too well to let go of him. Rather, she pulled him into her arms so she could hold him with both hands—for both their sakes'. He stumbled, his gaze locked on his father, who could only look at the two of them.

Mieta felt her eyes sting with tears. She felt her throat tighten, and the first of her tears spilled as he was unchained from his fellows and marched to the block. A Tevinter pushed him down on the block, his neck bare before the blade. The block was covered in blood, fresh blood, and pieces of flesh, maybe a bit of bone too.

She didn't want to watch her husband die. She didn't want to watch the axe fall, the head drop with a dull thud to the platform.

But she couldn't not watch either. She couldn't look away, and her mind was so numb that she didn't even think to cover her son's eyes and spare him the sight. It was foolish. Any proper mother would have done even that small a thing, but she felt so dizzy, so sick, that she never gave it any thought. But surely a child would look away? Surely a child would close their eyes?

Not Leto. His eyes were wide and unbelieving, a perfect picture of shattered innocence, as the headsman raised his axe. Calias took a sharp intake of breath.

She remembered his smile, the feel of his lips against her own. She remembered his strong arms around her, his callused hands against her skin. She remembered their wedding day, and how frightened she had been. She remembered their first coupling, so full of hesitation and shyness. How she had started to cry, and he had held her hands and told her that he was willing to wait if she was too frightened. She had never thought a man to be so courteous, but he was.

He was kind and understanding, logical and even-tempered, and always did exactly as he said he would and lived exactly as he preached. He was a dutiful, faithful husband who had never so much as given her cause to doubt him. He was a loving father that adored his son, and had been so happy when she had presented him with the news that she was pregnant again. He had been so gleeful that he had picked her up and swung her around, kissing her until she was breathless, and whispering to her that he wanted three more, and that they had best get started as soon as possible.

The tears felt hot against her cheeks.

The axe fell, and it seemed so slow.

Blood blossomed on his neck like a flower as the blade bit into his skin.

Lilies. She had always liked lilies. He brought her lilies every time he was sent out scouting or on any other errand that took him away for a long time, when it was the season.

It only took an instant, but it felt to her as if she could see every possible movement. The blade hit bone first, and it wasn't sharp enough to push through it. To her horror, Calias was still alive, in obvious pain and shock, too much so to make a sound, but she saw his eyes roll. The axe was hefted free. Blood ran over his neck, and the block. The axe was raised again, and it fell, this time hacking through the bone. The blade sank into the wood under his neck, slicing through skin, muscle, sinew, bone, tendons, arteries, a fresh wave of blood glistening on the block, just another red coat on the already bloodied axe.

Leto practically worshipped his father, doggedly trailing after him whenever he was home, and his attentions were only too welcome by the man in question. She had always said that he spoiled him, and he did. If their child wanted something, he was only too quick to get it, though he may make him wait for it for a while. He had promised to take him hunting when he was older. He would chase him around the house tickling him until Leto yielded in a fit of laughter. So many memories, and yet… not enough. Not nearly enough.

The head dropped into the waiting basket below with the same dull thud as before. Leto didn't jump this time, but he had gone utterly still.

Mieta seemed to suddenly regain herself as the body was tossed carelessly into a cart of other headless bodies. She averted her eyes as the head too was taken, and snatched her son, pulling him into the relative safety of her arms, pushing his face against her shoulder in an effort to spare him anymore.

There were other prisoners being led to the block, and she watched all of them, and all of them seemed to be Calias to her eyes.

It was as if he died dozens of times, and each time hurt as much as the last. Twenty-six, to be exact, and they were all dead. A horse pulled the cart away, and she watched the animal bear its dark burden, taking away the body of the man she had loved so dearly.

Calias, her dear husband, would have no grave and no pyre. No marker to call his own. A plea had already been given for them to tend to their dead, and it had been denied. There was no reason that it would be granted now.

Leto had fallen deathly silent since the ordeal. He said nothing as they were led back to the warehouse, nothing as the door banged close behind them, and nothing as they were fed a small bowl of rice. He stared at it without really seeing it, and only ate when she insisted that he had to.

She looked at her son, and wondered to herself if he would ever truly smile again.


	6. Chapter 6: The Road

Lura looked around herself, one hand clutching her mother's skirts as they were marched down the road, driven very much like cattle. The fog, most days, was so thick she could barely see, but she knew she must keep going.

There were men with axes, and swords on either side, and many of them were mean. Some stared at Mama in a way she was sure she didn't like, but didn't really understand.

They had been walking for what Mama assured her was two days, and her legs were already sore. She wanted to stop. She wanted to go home, and didn't understand why they couldn't.

Why must they walk? Why? What had happened? Why couldn't they go back home? But when she asked, Mama just told her to hush, so she eventually stopped asking.

Sometimes, she heard women screaming and crying at night. Maybe it was because they wanted to go home too; she knew that she cried at night, when she was cold and hungry, and missed her warm bed. She missed her toys, and Lady.

She even missed etiquette lessons.

She missed the garden, and the apple tree. She missed her dresses, and her ribbons. She missed Papa. What had happened to Papa? Some of the older men were here, and young boys. There were a few that were adolescent, but not very many.

"Where's Papa?" she asked her mother again.

Mama held her hand, squeezing it gently. "Papa died in battle, my love," she said to her daughter.

Lura blinked up at her mother. Died? She thought for a moment. Hadn't Mama said that before? She didn't really understand. What did it mean, to die? What happened? Mama said that her grandparents were dead. She had asked when Leto's grandparents came to visit him; she remembered that. So, naturally, she had inquired as to what that meant.

Mama had explained that it was what happened when you got very old, and you couldn't get around very well any longer; your soul went to rest at the Maker's side in eternal bliss, and if she was very good, she would get to meet them one day when she, too, got very old and died. She hadn't understood then either.

"What does that mean?" she asked insistently.

_Mama seems sad,_ she thought as her mother answered her, "It means you won't see him again."

She missed a step, aghast. "But… but why?" she cried out.

"Because he's dead."

That just seemed to go around in circles. She didn't understand. What did that _mean_? When someone died, what did that _mean_? Why _couldn't_ she see them again? Mama said she could! Mama said that they went to the Maker's side! So why couldn't she see them again? It just didn't make any sense.

Angry, she tore away, running, sobbing as she ran. She couldn't go out of the line, but the soldiers didn't care over much if she ran within the line. Sometimes, after all, they just had to move to the side to make water; they didn't stop often enough for that. Lura would hold it as long as she could, but she had to squat eventually.

She stumbled, and as she did, saw Leto. She ran toward him, snatching on to his wrist. He turned and looked at her, pulling her to her feet as she started to crumble. He held on to her, walking with her. She sobbed against his shoulder, unable to grasp what was going on.

"What's happening?" she demanded, wailing. "What's 'dead'? No one will tell me!"

Mieta gazed down at her. "It's when your soul leaves—either because you're old, or sick, or hurt too badly."

She looked up at her, lower lip quivering. "I don't understand," she complained.

Leto remained utterly silent. Why wouldn't he talk? Why wouldn't he tell her! He always said things so that she could understand. Why wouldn't he now? "Darling, when your soul leaves, your body stops moving. It's like being asleep, but you're asleep forever and no one can wake you up."

Lura looked up at Mieta, trying to make her words make sense. How could someone sleep forever? How could someone never wake up? But people still moved when they slept. Mama said that she kicked in her sleep, and stole the blankets. "I… But…" she stammered.

Sharall took her daughter's hand in hers. "Thank you, Mieta," she told her friend.

Mieta gave her a slight nod. "Anything I can do, Sharall," she said softly.

Sharall's eyes softened as she looked down at the two children, one in tears, and the other as silent as the dead.

Lura held on to Leto's arm for comfort as well as support. Her feet hurt so much, and Mama carried her as often as she could, but she knew that she was tired too, so was doing her best. "Do you know what's going on?" she whispered to him.

Finally, he answered, "Yes."

She blinked in surprise. Finally! Someone who could explain it to her. "Then what's going on? Where are they taking us?"  
"I don't know," he said.

His voice sounded funny to her. Blank, like he didn't really care about what they were talking about. If she weren't so tired, so frightened, she would have gotten angry. "But you said you knew!"

A slight, but uncertain, nod. "I… heard some of the soldiers talking," he admitted in a low whisper.

She blinked, anxious for news. "What'd they say?"

He glanced up at their mothers, who were engaged in their own whispered conversation as they led their children down the road. Lura stumbled again, but her mother and Leto kept her from falling. When she regained her footing, he said, "They're taking us to Tevinter."

Lura paused, confused. The word was one she had heard before, and she knew it as a distant place, but only as an abstract concept, one that was far away from her. "Why?"

His brow furrowed in thought, and he fell silent again. She fumed for a bit, but was too glad of his company to march away from him in her anger. Maybe he would tell her later, after all. She would have to remember. It was hard to do that sometimes.

She sometimes forgot about her father as the days passed, forgot that he had died. Sometimes, she cried at her own failure to truly understand. She cried because her legs felt like they would fall off. She cried for her blistered feet, and because she was always hungry. Sometimes, Leto would give her some of his food, saying that he wasn't hungry. She didn't know if it were true or not, but he seemed so sad, and just stared at it most of the time anyway.

She tried talking to him about whatever was bothering him, but he wouldn't talk about it. He wouldn't talk about anything, not really.

It seemed to her that her life in Schavalis had been nothing but a dream that she had long ago woken from to face reality. It felt like she had been walking forever, and would continue to walk forever. Her feet bled, and her mother carried her often, but still she hurt.

She wanted a bath. She wanted hot food. She wanted a warm bun from the oven, and butter. She wanted lamb stew, and pastries. She wanted cider, and apples. She wanted her bed, her house. She wanted the garden, and Lady. She wanted to play in the park. She even wanted to practice embroidery. She wanted Papa to tell her stories by the fire after dinner.

She wanted not to hurt any more.

One night, a man took Mama away, and she had cried when she saw how much Mama didn't want to go. Why would he take her like that? What was going on? Why was Mama leaving her behind? Leto had grabbed her arm to keep her from running after them, and she had sobbed and asked him what was going on. He stared at her, and it seemed to her as if he knew more than he should, but he didn't answer. Maybe he really didn't know, or even just didn't know how to tell her. Why not? If he knew, why couldn't she know too? He hauled her back down, and told her to go to sleep.

But how could she? _Why_ should she? It wasn't _fair_. What was happening to her Mama? Why did everyone else seem to know so much more than she did, but no one wanted to tell her? Why did they want her not to know? She lay awake, crying for not knowing what was happening. Would Mama even come back? Would she be dead too? And then would Lura die as well as her Mama and Papa? She was afraid to die. She didn't _really_ understand it, but it seemed scary, and like it might hurt. She didn't want Mama to die either. She didn't want anyone to die!

No one but those soldiers. It was _their_ fault. _Their_ fault they were going to die. _Their_ fault Papa was dead, and everyone else. _Their _fault they were on this march and her feet blistered and bled. _Their_ fault…!

And her tears of fear turned to tears of rage. She rubbed at her eyes and lashes, hot tracks of wetness running heedlessly down her cheeks, making tracks in the dirt caking her face. All she felt that she could do was cry. She didn't know if laughter was real any more. She had heard the soldiers laughing, but it sounded mean somehow.

Mama came back soon. She looked battered, and stumbled as she walked. She saw her crying, and tried to comfort her mother as best she knew how, with a hug, and kiss on the cheek, and telling her how much she loved her. But the woman just hugged her, and said the same thing Leto had—just go to sleep. She curled up beside her mother and slept.


	7. Chapter 7: Escapists

Newlyn looked out at the captives, feeling sorrow entrench his heart, his soul crying out at the suffering he beheld, and was the cause of.

When they got back to the main road, a smaller force would take the captives into a port city where they would be sent back to Tevinter. Soldiers would draw lots to be able to escort them—and why not? It was an easy task, one where they could rape women as they pleased, were not usually harried by attackers, and of course, rest at the city in the barracks was always welcome. The original plan had been to commandeer any ships in the harbor and shackle the captives up like so much cargo and sail to port, but the docks had been set ablaze and the ships were only so much wreckage.

Newlyn saw the pregnant woman, exhausted and trying to carry her son. He looked about at the others. They needed to stop. They needed to rest more, or many would just drop dead from exhaustion. Couldn't they see?

But he kept his tongue. He was no officer whose words would make a difference. He was no officer, no lord, or even a mage who had some influence. Just a hedge knight with no land, nothing but a "Ser."

That evening, some spoke that it would rain on the morrow. He was inclined to agree with that sentiment, and knew it made for miserable traveling in the best of conditions. But with the captives, who had no shelter, and were on foot besides, many barefoot? It was… cruel. It was intolerable—there were _children_.

They would get sick, and die… He didn't know what else to do.

He heard the sound of rutting, and a girl sobbing, from the inside of a tent as he passed by. He tried not to hear it. He tried to pretend that it was nothing. He wanted to pretend he hadn't heard the sobbing—maybe it could have been a camp follower, after all. Whores tended to be wherever the money was good, and military men had plenty of need. Then there were the vultures—not the birds, but the sort that, once the army had picked over the dead, they would take whatever scraps might be valuable. The slave boys that tended to the armor, horses, and carts. The squires who dressed their knights. There were so many people. Newlyn didn't have a squire—had no pay for one. Just that same empty title.

He tried to imagine these people if it were not a time of war. Would they still rape and thieve? Would they be as bloodthirsty as they are on the battlefield? He almost didn't care to think on it.

He lay awake, listening to the sounds of camp at night, and wondered if there was truly nothing to be done.

There was no justice in the world.

He woke to the sounds of morning—the scent of cooking, and people stirring. He dressed quickly, and clambered from his tent. Everything he owned, he carried. A slave would take care of the tent. Why did things have to be this way?

He supposed… if someone could get someone else to do something for them, and they didn't have to pay for it—Well, there were a lot of lazy people in the world, a lot of greedy people, and sometimes those things coincided.

But why should he make someone else do what he could do for himself? He looked at the tent, and hesitated. He would be mocked for doing it himself. The thought of the ridicule made him shy away from it. He took his armor, and his sword and shield, and stood in line for breakfast. He couldn't say he remembered what it was after he had eaten it, so occupied were his thoughts on the waiting day's trials.

It was raining before they had finished breaking camp, and he knew the road would soon turn to mud under the hooves of the horses, the wagon wheels, and the dogs. He was so sick of Seheron, and its rainy weather, the everlasting fog that made everything difficult; he was so homesick, and wanted to go back to Qarinus. Newlyn was instructed to take his bow instead of his sword and shield and go hunting. He supposed it was his turn.

He wasn't necessarily hunting for game, though that was part of it; he was to also look for signs that they were being followed, or anything out of the ordinary. He was stationed with two other men who were just as enthusiastic as he was about breaking away from the easy trail on horseback and trekking after game. He left his heavier armor in a cart, and wore leather to hunt. He had a warm cloak, and sturdy boots, and felt guilty about it when he looked over his shoulder at the miserable captives.

It nagged at him all day as he stalked through the forest. He thought about it when one of his fellows brought down an elk, and the four of them had to lug the big animal all the way back to camp. And, he thought, at least they were eating decently, and had shelter at night, and cloaks. The captives didn't even eat well.

He thought of the children amongst them, the pace the army was setting, and it just made him sick. Too sick to eat that night. He was a guard of the captives the day after that, and wondered when the first of them would begin to die.

The thought gave him pause. He just couldn't bear this any longer.

He looked up, and saw the pregnant elf. She stumbled, and fell in the mud. He pulled his horse to a stop in alarm. The column kept walking, but she stayed. He swung down from his horse. It was a war horse, well trained, and he commanded it to stand. It stayed in place, watching him as he moved amongst the captives. They gave him a wide berth as he passed, and he came to the fallen woman.

He knelt beside her, concern etched in his profile. Her boy, the dark-haired child, was staring at him with that same look, like he measured his soul and found it wanting. Newlyn looked back at the boy. "Would you let me help her?" he asked, seeing how the child stood—back rigid, legs parallel to his shoulders, suspicion marked in his features. The child seemed grudging, but he took a step back, but watched him with all the trust a deer had for a lion.

The woman looked up at Newlyn, fearful as a doe. He didn't ask for her permission, for something told him that she was too proud to accept it. Rather, he lifted her into his arms, not knowing what else to do. He walked back to his waiting horse, who had strayed but a little. The boy trailed behind him. The horse was indignant—_I am a destrier, not a palfry-_but when he set the woman down on it, it stayed steady. She looked at him, fearful still—either of what he was doing, or of the animal, he couldn't say. He took the horse's bit and led it. He knew someone would report it, and he may even get into some kind of trouble for it, but…

He couldn't just leave it be.

When the boy was struggling to get through the mud, he stopped and lifted him too, placing him beside his mother. As he did, she finally spoke. "You do a noble thing, ser," she told him.

He looked up at her, and felt his eyes threaten to water. Noble—he? No, and it even hurt to hear her say that, after everything he had done to her and her town and everyone she knew. "No, my lady," he whispered, and feared his voice may crack like an adolescent's. "It is not noble to do a good deed." He turned and began to lead the horse again.

"Though it is noble to do a good deed when all else is wretched and others would condemn the deed," she called to him.

He glanced back at her once, and looked down, leading on. They were wise words, words he should heed, but words nonetheless. In the end, the words hung heavy over his heart. He knew he should do more to truly be noble. To truly be noble, he would help them. To truly be noble, he would not falter, or hesitate in that path. But he didn't even pitch his own tent; a slave did that. A slave whose name he didn't even know.

He was right; someone did confront him about letting her sit atop the horse, and sooner than he had thought.

The mage rode up to him. He was a red-faced man with a big beak of a nose that he had always rather compared to some kind of bird. He was clearly angry, and he could tell that from his disposition from a distance, though he could only watch as he came closer, and drew up the reigns as he came beside him. "What do you think you're doing, Barker?" he squawked.

Newlyn didn't look away with some effort. "Walking, as you can observe," he answered testily, his anger at the entire situation with the captives for the first time truly beginning to surface. How dare this man? Couldn't he just leave it be? He was hurting no one, after all.

The mage's gaze flicked to the woman and her son. The boy was peering around her curiously, though she looked very much like she would rather be nearly anywhere else. "Letting the captives ride your horse while you walk is not something you were instructed to do, nor why you have a horse, Barker." He left unsaid how ashamed he should be of his actions, how it shamed the entire military force, undoubtedly.

Newlyn pressed his lips shut into a thin line to keep from exploding in a mess of anger. He let out a long breath through his nose before he answered. "Look more closely. The mud comes up to the boy's knees, and his mother cannot carry him; she's _pregnant_," he insisted.

The mage paused, looking at her swollen belly. _Four months_, he guessed. "If she dies, she dies."

Newlyn had to approach this in some other way. "You said we were to do the raid to capture slaves. What good does it do us if half of them die and the rest are sick?" he demanded.

The mage glanced out at the captives, as if seeing them for the first time, not as a mass, but as individuals. The mass moved on, but the individuals fell, shivered, leaned against each other, carried their children. They trudged at a pace they couldn't hope to maintain, and were not making it in the high mud, the constant drivel of rain just making it worse. The mage paused. He wasn't unreasonable, Newlyn decided. Just pig-headed. Or bird-brained.

He glanced at the woman, who stared at him meekly. "I'll see what I can do," he said, and turned, trotting his horse through the mud. Newlyn sighed, and continued slogging.

Later on, they called an early camp. Some of the wagons were rearranged, and two empty ones were brought up. Select captives were put in it—the weakest of them, and the pregnant woman, he noted. Any child under ten summers. They were packed close, but at least out of the mud and the wagons had tarp canopies that helped keep out the weather.

Newlyn watched the goings-on, and thought, some good can be accomplished in the world. It wasn't nearly enough, but it was something.

But as the day wore on, and the rain came down harder, he wondered if he couldn't have done more somehow. Maybe that was all that could be done.

There was a storm that night, and he lay awake, shivering in his tent, cold. He wondered how cold the captives must be, and his conscience bade him to rise, and so he did. He took his cloak, and sought out the pregnant woman he felt so much guilt for. They had made their camp just off the road in a field, which wasn't so bad as the mud on the road. The captives were watched constantly, but he could walk amongst them, and no one thought much of it. He found her half-asleep, her back against a wagon wheel, her son in her lap. He knelt beside her, and felt he should say something. But what was there to say? An apology, begging for forgiveness.

He didn't deserve forgiveness.

He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and spread it over them both. He could reclaim it in the morning before anyone saw that he didn't have it any more. He saw her eyes flicker open as he turned, and knew she watched him go. He came back at first light, and she quickly gave it back to him without a word, but her eyes were wet with gratitude.

As he turned to go, she caught his sleeve. "No matter what you believe, you are a noble man amidst beasts," she told him.

He stared at her, and wished she could see that he was really a monster. "No, I fear that I am a beast too."

She reached out a hand, and tenderly cupped his cheek, scratchy with stubble, grimy and unwashed. She looked at him so sweetly that he found himself missing Kiersten all the more, for she would look at him like that sometimes as well, and tell him that she saw all the good in him. Did this elven woman see what Kiersten seemed to see? "That you fear it means you are not it," she told him.

He looked at her, not even knowing what to say or how to respond. Why didn't she see? Why didn't she understand that he was a monster? "No—No, look what I've done to you," he cried, voice soft.

"It's not what _you_ have done," she told him. "You were given an order, and you followed it. _You_ are not the monster; it's the one giving you orders."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Ma'am, you are kind, but…"

"It's like a knife," she said gently. "A knife can kill someone, or slice vegetables, but its purpose is not up to the blade. Or like mages, who have the option to be a more powerful maleficar, but that is still their _choice_ and not all of them do."

He felt like she must be delirious. "Ma'am…" he began.

She raised a finger for silence. "It's the same as you. You have the _option_ to be a monster, but are you?"

Newlyn felt his heart aching. It wasn't like that. It wasn't that easy. It wasn't nearly so black and white. "I…"

She didn't wait for him to finish. "You're like a knife, Newlyn," she said again, as she lovingly stroked her son's hair. A son who, he realized, was listening intently. Whether he understood or not was a different matter. "A knife can be used to cut bread, or stab someone in the heart. But the knife isn't evil. It just _is_. It's just a tool—like a soldier following orders."

He searched her eyes for any sign that she might be being unkind, but found none. "You are wise beyond your years, ma'am," he said, and hurried away without a further word. She was wise, he knew. And he should listen to her. The boy was fortunate to have a mother so wise. Maybe he would grow up with half her wisdom.

If he lived that long. If something horrible didn't happen to him, or to her. If they weren't separated and sold off.

_If, if, if_!

To Newlyn's eyes, it just wasn't possible that the child should live to adulthood under these circumstances. What would be the odds that a child so young would survive without its parent? Even if she didn't die on the long trek to the city, she was pregnant. What if she died during childbirth? What if they were simply sold to different people?

That child, and all the others, had such a frightening, uncertain future ahead of them, and he found himself praying for all of them.

More days passed. The weather lightened and the sun broke from the clouds again, but there were stirrings amongst the men. They were getting indignant that their looting was going towards funding the war effort, and not lining their own pockets. In Newlyn's opinion, they were_ soldiers_ not _reavers_ but that changed nothing. People were greedy no matter what, and a few of them even sounded very convincing, even to his ears.

He stopped and listened to one of them speak. He spoke of how hard they worked, the pace they set, how they hadn't been home in years and weren't paid enough for the work and life and limb they risked (and cut down), and so deserved a fair share of the gold and jewels pillaged.

When their words started making sense, Newlyn knew that it was time to move on, lest he start believing in them. He had no need to report it; the officers knew, and tried to hush the speakers whenever they could—sometimes with warnings, sometimes with chores, and a couple times the aid of a whip, but it didn't help. Instead of shouting, they whispered, and that was the only real difference, and the officers attempt at silencing them only influenced them, and not in the direction intended.

Newlyn suspected some kind of uprising soon, and indeed, one eve as the watch changed, he was right.

The fighting didn't start like a battle he was accustomed to. It was suddenly everywhere—madness, the conspirators acting at what must have been a set time. Apparently, someone had killed one of the mages by taking him by surprise. The woman mage was protected by the time he stumbled out of his tent with his sword and joined the fray, half-dressed but determined to fulfill his duty, and earn his pay.

It was the only time he had really felt very good about fighting. Fighting Qunari was one thing, but he had seen little enough of that lately. They were vicious, and treated mages—who, despite everything, he still viewed as people and souls first and foremost-worse than animals besides, even if they weren't attacking them. But fighting in an uprising was something else.

Then, an idea occurred to him. The fighting would be a perfect time…

He broke away from the fight, stole between the wagons and wove around skirmishes, desperately hunting for the roped off area. It wasn't defended right now; there was too much going on. He saw some of the slaves—mostly the young men and girls—were already fleeing, some in groups, some individually. They may be cut down in the fighting, and many would simply be caught again or die in the elements. Others were too frightened to try.

He had to do this, or he would regret it forever.

He remembered that boy's eyes, his mother's words. Could he live with himself knowing he had had a hand in selling them into a lifetime of slavery and hardship? Kiersten would be disgusted with him if she knew. Maybe, before he had met her, he wouldn't be doing this, but the girl had changed him—for the better, he hoped.

He crept back to his tent, and donned his armor, listening to the chaos outside. He snatched up his weapons and ran for the horses. Many of them were already taken. He whistled, high and shrill. His horse's head snapped up, ears pricking forward. He whistled again, and she came at a brisk trot. He kept whistling, running now. She kept after him, to the place her tack was. There was no boy to do it for him this time, and it was hard with the armor on. Nearly impossible, more like; he had to take the gauntlets off, but he managed to get both saddle and the bridle on. He slid his hands back in to the gauntlets, sliding his bow and quiver into their place on the saddle, and pulled himself into the stirrups. He heard an unholy scream as someone was set ablaze. The mages…

He looked back, over his shoulder at the blaze. It wasn't wide, but it was high-a fiery beacon that could be seen for miles around, and people screamed, melting in its fury. He could smell burning hair even from this distance. His horse whickered nervously as others screamed, and there was no worse sound than a horse in pain.

He wheeled her around, and kicked her into a gallop. She vaulted forward, eager to be gone from the fire, and leaped the rope pen. Her hooves skittered in the grass, and she charged forward. He engaged as few as the rebel soldiers as possible on his mad dash for the captives. Someone stumbled in front of him, with no time to turn. The horse leapt, but her hooves crashed against his unarmored head. He heard a sickening thud when bone broke. She stumbled as she landed, but was running again in a moment.

He had liked Bluebell since he had met her. The horse always seemed to make better company than the men in the camp. Not to mention that she not only tolerated his most recent of shenanigans, but seemed only too happy to oblige them.

She dashed around a corner, barely slowing to accommodate the turn. Her hooves slid over the earth, but the mud had dried days ago, or she might have fallen. She slowed to make another turn, and took up speed again. He leaned forward in the stirrups, knees tucked in as she leapt, over the other rope barrier. She landed in the grass, and he pulled her reigns so she may slow to a trot. He brought her up to the wagons the captives had hidden under. He scanned them, looking for the pregnant woman.

He didn't even know her name.

But the boy recognized him. He saw a child partially crawl from the wagon, kneeling in the grass as he looked up at him. Newlyn brought Bluebell to an impatient halt when he saw the ebony hair.

"Where's your mother?" he called to the child.

The boy glanced back under the wagon, then back at him without speaking, but the glance was enough. Newlyn sprang from the saddle as lithe as a cat, running to the wagon. He saw her, and she looked up at him. He held his hand out to her.

"You have to run—this is your only chance!" he told her.

She hesitated, looking around her, then took his hand. He helped haul her out, then called to the other captives. "All of you—this is your only chance to run!" he screamed as he grabbed the reigns to his horse. "If you stay, you'll be slaves, and your children will be slaves, and their children." He left unsaid that if they chose to run they may die.

He set the woman in his saddle, and the boy in front of her. Bluebell was strong enough for two passengers, but it would slow her down. He swung up behind her, conscious that his armor would slow them down too. He slid his feet into the stirrups, his arms encircling the two elves. He kicked Bluebell into a canter. The woman yelped in fright, the boy silent as the grave. He couldn't say if others followed, for he dare not look.

The horse couldn't jump the rope with passengers, so he rode up beside it and cut it in twain with his sword—an awkward blow with two passengers, but possible.

They ran on. Some saw him, others called out to him, told him to stop, but they had their own problems right now.

He let Bluebell run free, giving the horse her head. It didn't matter _where_ they went, just that they _went_, for the moment at least.

But long-term?

He would be worse than a deserter; he would be a traitor. And his beloved Kiersten? He would be lucky if he would ever see her again. He hoped that she could one day learn the truth of what he had done, and not that he was simply a deserter and a traitor. And a thief—the captives would be considered slaves after all, property.

He hoped… No, it didn't matter any longer. He had made his decision, though a part of him wondered if he would grow to regret it.

As he rode, and the horse slowed, he came to realize what he had given up in a moment of rashness. He had given up Kiersten. He had given up his country and his home. His life as a soldier. He had given up… everything. Everything he was, who he was. And for what? His conscience? Some elves? Was it worth it? He didn't know. He could have just left it be. He should have just left it be.

He climbed off of the horse to lighten her load, and walked, leading her. Walking in such armor for long periods of time and at night was troublesome, but there was nothing else for it. All was silence—or rather, close to it, as they could still hear the remnants of the battle far behind them. The forest swallowed much of the sound, but the wind did carry it.

They came to a stream, and he helped the two down to drink. He drank a bit himself, but only let Bluebell have a couple swallows before he pushed her away. She didn't need to drink too much yet, and shouldn't.

If he had been wise, he would have grabbed food, supplies—something. But he hadn't. At least he had his bow; he could hunt. And, he supposed, eat roast as there was no other way to cook anything. Or carry it. Or anything really.

The woman washed her face, and her son's—a bit against his will, and she made him wash his hands too. He waited, and gave them some time.

She approached him, and bowed her head. "Thank you, serrah," she told him, and looked up at him, grateful beyond words. He didn't deserve such a title.

He glanced away, not knowing what to say. "I…" But he looked at her, saw the gratitude in her eyes. He looked to the child, so full of hope for the first time since he had seen him. Yes. Yes, it had been worth it. If he could only help two people… it would be worth it. "It was the right thing to do."

"Yet so few people would have done it," she told him, and smiled warmly.

He glanced back the way they had come. It would likely be past midnight before the camp was back in order. Someone would have reported him running off, and he had no doubt that they would come looking for him. He would be executed if he were caught.

He needed to put as much distance between himself and the encampment as possible. The woman put her son on the horse, but herself walked, saying that the poor beast needed a break, lest they break her wind between all the running and her heavy passengers.

Newlyn led the horse, and a sort of comfortable silence fell over them. It was several minutes longer before he realized that he still did not know their names. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then back at the deer path they followed. "I'm Newlyn Barker," he told her, dropping his title. It was a corrupted title.

He saw her smile again, this time in satisfaction. "Ah, it is good to know the name of our rescuer," she mused. She was silent for a moment, and he thought she would not return the courtesy at first. "I'm Mieta."

"No last name?" he inquired, and wondered if it were rude.

She laughed gently. "I hardly think that matters any longer," she told him. She was right; it didn't. As a slave, she wouldn't have one, and if they were to be free, they would have to join the Qun.

He glanced back at the boy. "What's your name?" he asked him, trying to sound cheerful.

The child regarded him with outright suspicion. Under the circumstances, it was understandable, but it was troubling to see a child so jaded. "… Leto," he answered curtly.

"Were you named after someone?" he asked idly. "I was named after my father."

Leto paused. "My father's dead," he said, very matter-of-factly.

He wondered if perhaps his father had died quite a long time ago, maybe before the child could remember, but that thought didn't last long. "He was executed. Shortly after your army sacked Schavalis," Mieta said, a hint of bitterness in her voice.

There was nothing he could say to ease her sorrow-nothing. He couldn't apologize; it wasn't his fault, and he had already tried anyway. He could give her no comforting words; he was no priest or poet. "Your husband died bravely. They all did," he whispered.

"Dying bravely is hardly something I would wish for anyone, ser," she said, her voice tart. "I would rather have him alive and a coward."

There was nothing more he could say, so he fell to silence. He told them the necessity of continuing on their path even after night had fallen. He had thought the child would complain, but he did not.

"Do you speak Tevene at all, ma'am?" he asked her.

She frowned a little. "Some." She was quiet a moment. "I suppose it lost value when we started trading with the Qunari, and most people just speak the Trade tongue."

They would have to learn it if they were ever captured, he knew. Drilled harshly into them, beaten for speaking in another dialect—probably the same way the ancient elves lost their language, come to think of it.

They had to both be hungry, and weary, but they slogged onwards anyway. The two adults took turns riding on the horse throughout the night, and he found a place that was at least easily defendable to lay up by day, at least for a little while. He picketed Bluebell, and let the two elves sleep while he tended his armor and sword.

He had thought the child was asleep when he started cleaning his sword with a handful of earth, but he was watching him intently. Newlyn looked up at Leto, then back at the blade, continuing to scrub it clean.

"What are you doing?" the elf asked.

He debated over telling him to go to sleep, or just answering his questions, but he remembered being a curious child too, and also recalled what hell the boy had been through over the past few weeks. It prompted him to a kindness he would have not otherwise offered. "Cleaning the blade," he answered.

The boy sat down beside him, quite curious. "With dirt?"

Newlyn snorted a laugh. "I don't have anything else," he explained. "And 'dirt' works pretty well for getting blood off of a blade."

He frowned. "Why?"

The human almost regretted answering him the first time. "Because it cleans the blade—see?" He demonstrated, and the boy fell silent for a bit as he watched.

"Why do you kill people?"

He paused in his scrubbing, debating the answer to that question, then continued. "Because I'm told to," he said, flipping the blade over to get to the other side.

Leto cocked his head to the side in thought. "Why?"

He felt like smacking his palm against his forehead, or shooing the boy away, but guilt kept him from either. "Because some people think other people need to die, so have other people go kill them."

He could have asked the next question himself: "Why?"

Newlyn's lips pressed together in a thin, mildly irritated line. He was exhausted, and hungry, and really didn't need this nonsense right now! "Because some people are bastards," he answered, glancing up at the child for a reaction.

The boy's nose wrinkled. "What's a 'bastard'?"

He glanced toward Mieta, who was fast asleep. "A word you won't repeat, got it?"

"But what does it _mean_?" he pressed.

Newlyn sighed to himself. "Someone who's mean, wicked—evil." He shrugged. "A child can also be a bastard when their parents weren't married when they were born."

Leto's brow creased in thought, trying to make this new bit of information make sense. "Why is someone evil when their parents weren't married?"

The soldier took a long breath through his nose, wishing a stop to this inane line of questioning. "Here." He handed the boy his dagger. In the child's hands, it seemed a lot bigger. The boy stared at it in silent wonder. "Keep it, and go to sleep. When you wake up, I'll show you how to use it."

The knife would be more use to the boy than anything else he could think of. He may be three, but Newlyn had been five when he held his first dulled blade, but he hadn't faced the danger this boy did. Mieta might not like that, but Newlyn didn't want the child defenseless—or her for that matter. No worries—he himself liked and collected knives. He had two more, and he would give one to her as well.

He shooed the kid off to sleep, and he actually trotted off this time, and _did_ go to sleep.

He and Mieta changed shifts. He put his armor on the ground regretfully and laid down with his cloak. Newlyn could say that he dreamt, and knew his dreams were nightmare-memories of war.

Battle was so terrible. Severed limbs, blood covering the field, soaking the ground. Scorched earth, dying men, dogs, and horses. It was so terrible, he had once wondered how anyone could bear to do it again after having lived through it once. He supposed because they had to, but he knew that some people actually liked it.

He couldn't for a moment imagine liking bringing death to others, but he remembered the first man he had killed. It was a Qunari, actually—but that mattered little to him. Did being a giant with horns make him less of a person? No, not to Newlyn. He had been sick over it, and when it was over, had vomited until there was simply nothing left. He had lied and said it was the smell. A senior soldier told him that he would get used to it. In a way, he did, but he had had to learn to forgive—both the one he killed, and himself for doing it.

It had been a hard lesson, but it helped.

By the time he had woken, Mieta had found edible berries, a few nuts, and a couple mushrooms. It wasn't much, but they divided it as best they could. The elf woman had curried the animal as best she could with her fingers, but she really needed a good comb if they were to keep saddling her. If there was a rock, she could get a saddle sore, and they wouldn't be able to ride her.

They pressed on. Neither had slept nearly enough as they would need, but it was time to go on anyway. "Where are we going?" Leto asked after a long silence had passed, he and his mother on the horse and Newlyn leading.

It was a good question, and the adults looked at each other in silent question for a moment. "You know this land better than I," he told her.

She frowned in thought, and her lips drew into a thin line. "Northward—toward the Qunari encampments; they will give us refuge." There were a few well-guarded ports along the northernmost shores of Seheron that the Qunari used to ferry troops and supplies from Par Vallen in the north. They would find the Qunari to the north; she was certain of it.

Newlyn looked up at the sun, and oriented himself that way. Thankfully, they had gone north and west when they fled, rather than south. South would lead them nowhere save the sea, and that was a dead end to them.

They had to stop toward nightfall. They had been foraging intermittently as they passed, but Bluebell needed to graze and drink. Mieta took the work of gathering edible foods upon herself, and he trusted her to be light on her feet and nimble. All elves were.

Newlyn unsaddled Bluebell, and removed her bit so she could graze on the tall grasses. He himself took out his knife and found a long green branch that he began fashioning into what his grandfather had called a "rabbit stick." It would do for hunting small game, and they needed all the help they could get. Arrows were expensive, and could be ruined easily, and considering what they were doing, he'd rather carry the stick than a drawn bow for hours, even if he had one.

He barely got to it though before he felt more than heard the boy lurking over his shoulder. Why were elves so damned quiet?

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked, peering over his shoulder curiously.

Newlyn frowned, slicing off another twig. "Making a rabbit stick," he said casually.

The boy watched him for a moment, then asked the inevitable question: "What's that?"

"A stick. For rabbits."

The boy mulled that thought over for a moment. "For _killing_ rabbits?"

"Do you like rabbit?" he asked him.

He blinked. "Uh-huh."

"Then sit down and be quiet so I can finish it," he said. The boy scowled, but did as bidden, crossing his arms. It didn't last long, but the silence was golden while it lasted, and he was about finished anyway.

"You said you'd teach me how to use the knife," he said, holding out the small blade in one hand.

Newlyn scowled at him, in a friendly sort of way. He ignored him until he finished, then set the stick away, and sheathed his hunting knife. "No I didn't," he admonished him. "I _said_ I'd teach you how to use the _dagger_."

"Oh," the boy said, voice flat.

He touched the small blade. "That's what this is." He turned toward him. "First lesson—are you ready?"

The child grinned anxiously, nodding. "Uh-huh!"

He would have been just as excited at his age. "Good. Keep it hidden—that's the first rule."

The boy nodded, blinked when Newlyn didn't go on, and then connected the dots in his mind. He searched about himself for a moment, and Newlyn let him continue for a bit, then he helped him tuck it into the back of his pants, in his belt. His tunic covered the small dagger.

"Good—now draw it." And he let him practice drawing it. He was awkward at first, but Newlyn was careful not to let him hurt himself, always reminding him that it was sharp.

Mieta came back with a bit of the same stuff as last time, and they ate briskly, then hurried on throughout the night.

Newlyn let the horse lead more than himself; it had better night sight. He walked along beside it numbly, listening to the sounds of the forest, and trying not to trip over a root or something.

Suddenly, Mieta jerked the horse's reigns to a halt. He stumbled in surprise, looking up at her. "I hear dogs," she whispered.

Newlyn paused, straining to hear whatever she heard. Leto said, "I hear them too."

He scowled. He didn't hear anything. "I don't," he muttered darkly.

She frowned. "Of course _you_ don't; you're human," she said matter-of-factly. "We need to lose them."

"Do you hear water?"

Leto pointed, off to the east, absolutely certain. They turned, and Mieta got off of Bluebell, smiling warmly at him. "Elves have better night vision than humans—you ride Bluebell, ser knight."

He scowled. "How did you guess my knighthood, ma'am?"

He heard her kind of chuckle. "How could I not, with the arrogant way you carry yourself, and your fancy suit of armor with its embellished crest?" He dropped the matter, and let her walk while he road, as he saw no way around it.

What she said must have been true, for she stumbled less or not at all, and was more sure-footed than Bluebell was. The stream was ankle deep, and he offered to let her ride the horse, but again she refrained, saying that he couldn't let his armor rust. It was true enough, and so they forded upstream. The night was cool, and the water must have been cold, but she never complained, nor did she stumble, though occasionally picked and chose her path. The thick mists helped to lose the trackers, but Newlyn worried about getting lost in it.

They pressed on relentlessly, desperately. Eventually, it grew too deep, and they had to get out of the water. They climbed up on the east bank and Mieta covered their tracks by sweeping them with a pine bough.

She smiled up at him with some pride. "My husband was a scout," she explained.

Newlyn only nodded, the sick feeling in his gut making him cringe. And it was his people's fault he was dead now.

The night wore on, and they were all tired by morning, but Mieta would not let them rest; the dogs worried her, and so they pressed ever onward.

They stopped little or not at all, only picking up anything edible as they passed. The horse was a strong, loyal creature, but little rations and fewer breaks were taking a toll on the poor beast. Newlyn had to remove the bit and let her graze as they walked, or she might never have eaten enough to keep her going. The longest they allowed themselves to rest was to make water, which was a necessity that could not be neglected, and unfortunate, because to a dog, it left a trail, so they stuck as close to streams as was convenient, both for the water source as well as waste.

They just kept walking, legs weary and heavy, and so tired. They let Leto stretch his legs on occasion, but mostly he rode, and shifted uncomfortably in the high seat, too small for the big animal really. But despite their run, Newlyn felt that he couldn't neglect teaching them about the knives they carried; knowing what to do, even a little, could be more advantageous than a bit of distance, when it came down to it, and the horse needed to rest, for she never got the same breaks they did.

They hadn't slept in days, except for occasionally drifting off in the saddle. Leto was the only one who could sleep, with an adult holding on to him to keep him from sliding, though he did not sleep well, and from the faces he made, his dreams seemed troubled, though he made no mention of them; perhaps he didn't remember them.

Newlyn prayed that if they survived this that the boy wouldn't remember this any more than the dreams. Mieta had whispered to him while her son slept lightly that he had seen his father die. No child deserved that, and it would haunt him if he didn't forget. He may be young enough to forget with time, not yet old enough to truly form memories in the way Newlyn knew them. Did he remember being three? No, not really.

If the boy did forget, it would only be a blessing: His father's death, his home sacked, everyone he knew enslaved, the brutal march to the slave ships… No, he didn't deserve to remember it except perhaps as a story his mother may one day tell him.

He prayed it would only be a story. A brilliant story—of their escape from those that would enslave them to make her children's eyes widen in wonder, and later smile in admiration of the bravery, wit, and vigor their mother had shown.

He remembered that statue in the village square. He had seen it before it had been pulled down and smashed, and he had thought it was subtlety, quietly, magnificent. It was strength, and courage, and everything a man needed—not only of body, but also of spirit and mind. That was the sort of thing he wanted for the child.

Despite all their efforts, they eventually were forced to rest. Bluebell suddenly stopped walking one late afternoon, digging in her feet, shivering, and refused to move. Newlyn tried coaxing her, gently. He pet her, and hand-fed her, cooing and caressing her, but still she would not move.

He knew she had to be sore. Leaving a horse in the saddle for so long was practically a crime, and she was tired besides, and hungry. There was nothing for it but to let her rest.

The passengers got off of her, and he was able to coax her into a bit of shelter. Mieta stayed with the horse while he scouted for a likely campsite. He found a small alcove—almost a cave, with a ditch on one side, ferns on the other two. It was good enough, with plenty of cover if not so defensible. He was able to lead Bluebell to it, and hobble her to a likely tree. He unsaddled her, dropped it a distance away from her, and she seemed grateful to have it off. She looked very much like she would like a good roll on the ground, so he sighed, and removed the rope from her holster. She stretched, arching her neck. Watching a horse roll was comical. In any other situation, he may have laughed, but he only looked on in silent contemplation while she rolled on the earth, enjoying the feel of it against her back. She finally climbed to her feet, suddenly more interested in the fresh green grasses. While she munched, he hobbled her again, feeling a little less guilty about it now. He scratched her cheek affectionately. She had put up with a lot in the past few days, and she was tired.

Newlyn took the first watch, and watched for rabbits as well as men and dogs. He waited, and watched, and saw nothing through the Maker-blasted fog. Then—A quick reaction on his part, a deft movement was all, and the stick flew through the air. It buried itself in a young rabbit's haunches, and he hurried after it. It was still alive, so he quickly took his knife to the poor creature's throat. He pulled out the stick, and let it bleed out. Now how could he cook it without anyone seeing that he was? That was the biggest puzzle.

He stared at the rabbit. Maybe he should skin it for now, and think about it while he kept watch. He paused frequently as he worked, listening and watching as the others rested, and wondered how they could cook it.

If they were on the beach, he would wrap it in large leaves and mud, and bury it in the sand—it would become an oven, and cook over a long period of time, slowly, if it were a hot day. But it was too cool in the forest and they didn't have the time anyway. The way he saw it, they really needed a fire, and a fire was just too risky; smoke could be seen for miles after all. He strung it up anyway, hanging it in a tree to keep animals away from it.

They didn't have any salt either, to preserve its meat. He wondered if the creature had died for nothing. …Like so many other things, and people.


	8. Chapter 8: Alone

The fighting had scared Lura, making her cling tightly to her mother's skirts, and want desperately to be held, picked up, told that everything would be all right. But no one said that, no one did that. Her mother held on to her, but her grip was painful, and Lura was too scared to tell her so.

She had seen Leto and his mother run at the first sight of the mage's fire, seeking shelter. Her mother, though, must have been braver. A few others saw that the soldiers watching them had turned on one another, or were running to aid their comrades. No one was watching them, and even Lura could see that.

Her mother looked about her, and finally lifted Lura into her arms. From her elevated position, the girl could see more of the smoking fires. The very ground shook with the force of the mage's might. She could hear shrieks of pain, and it sounded familiar. Just like back in Schavalis, when… She dared not think of what had happened in Schavalis. It gave her nightmares, and there was no comfort from them. Most nights, she just pretended that it didn't happen, that _that_ had all been a dream.

They had been on the road for so long, she wondered if it might have been. Walking was what felt like all she had ever known. Maybe Schavalis _had_ been a dream. It _felt_ like a dream.

The stench of burning hair filled her nostrils, making her cover her nose. Her mother was suddenly running. The ground swept by them, and she clutched Mama tightly, eyes wide with fright.

But as her mother ducked under the rope, and into the chaos, she quickly squeezed her eyes shut, but sometimes she opened them without meaning to. Her mother continued to run, to duck, and weave, and she knew not what happened, but she could hear everything, and caught occasional glimpses.

Images danced in her mind, of the blood she had seen. A man with missing fingers, bloody at the stubs, screaming in rage. A body, an arrow sticking out of his eye. A horse lying in a pool of its own blood, its rider's leg crushed under its bulk and pinned.

She smelled a scent like slaughter day at a butcher's, and imagined that it was people. The thought made her sick, and very scared.

Would she be dead too? When she died, would she smell like that too?

She could hear her mother's heavy breathing, her panting. She stumbled once, and Lura's eyes snapped open, then immediately closed as a sword struck another man in the neck, creating a shower of blood. Her mother kept running. No one seemed to impede her.

She ran madly, and for what felt forever, before she set Lura down on her own feet, and told her to run with her, as fast as she could. Lura did her best to keep up with her mother, but she tired quickly, and her mother soon had to carry her again. Before long, she too had to slow, and the two hurried along through the forest, well into the night.

"I'm tired," Lura complained, huffing and puffing to keep going.

"Baby, you have to keep moving," her mother urged her, and she did her best. She really tried; she did. She hurried, and panted, and scrambled. She pushed herself, and her mother told her that if they didn't hurry, they would be caught. Lura wondered what was so bad about that, given that the alternative was the scary forest and wild animals. What would they do in the forest anyway? What would they eat? Who would protect them from wolves?

But they kept running anyway, stumbling, scrambling.

Hours more passed. In full dark, Lura fell, and tried to get up, but her shaking legs just wouldn't hold her any more. She had walked all day, and ran as best she could all night, and her legs wouldn't go any more.

She looked up hopelessly at her mother, who only scooped her up once more. She carried her in her arms, then moved her to her back, hunting her way through the forest, determinedly.

Lura's little legs were aching with pain, and she made soft noises of hurt whenever something hit them, like a low-hanging branch, as they passed amidst the trees. They splashed through a stream, and up a muddy bank. Toward dawn, they didn't even stop.

Lura had once tried to stay up so late, but had fallen asleep far earlier than she had intended. Now, it felt like no great accomplishment, but rather a terrible curse. She wanted so badly to sleep. She had a soft bed in Schavalis, if it were true and not a dream, with thick blankets, and a pillow. She wanted so much to just curl up under the covers with Lady and fall asleep, to dream.

She wanted to just lie down, just for a little while. Walking hurt. Riding on her mother's back hurt, and stretched out her legs uncomfortably. How had she ever thought this had been fun before?

She walked, stumbling in exhaustion after her mother as long as she could before her mother picked her up again. To herself, Sharall seemed strong and powerful.

To one more learned, the woman would look desperate and mad with her desire to flee.

"I'm hungry," Lura complained toward noon, her voice a low whine of grievance.

"Hush, baby—we have to keep running."

Lura looked about the forest. There was deer clover, and that was edible—Leto had said so, and he had learned from his papa. There should be berries too, and nuts, she bet—and roots. She struggled to keep up with her mother, stumbling more and more often between her hunger, her fatigue, and her pain.

Lura fell and scraped her hands once, and had to be comforted to keep going, but she sniffled in her pain. She wanted a bandage, and water to clean it, but they had none. She was so thirsty, when they came across another stream, they both stopped and drank deeply. Lura washed her hands before they passed over it.

The water only seemed to sharpen her hunger, and the water she had splashed on her face only seemed to remind her of how tired she was.

She wished that she had stayed with Leto. Or that he were with her. She wondered if he were all right, and she certainly hoped so. She wondered, too, if she would ever see him again. The thought that she might not filled her eyes with a new set of tears.

She felt that she had been crying intermittently all day, at every hurt, and because of how very sleepy she was. She wanted so badly to go to bed. Her bed. It did exist, didn't it? The pretty memories of her own real bed, her toys, and her house—that couldn't have been a dream, could it?

She hoped not.

Lura hurried uphill after Mama, who climbed with strong, sure, long legs. Lura had to crawl like a bear to climb up the hill, her hands getting covered in soil. Once, she put her hand on a worm, and cried out in fear and disgust. Her mother had looked at her as if she had broken something valuable at her loud shout, and told her to be very quiet, in a kind of mean voice that made Lura afraid.

As they fled, Sharall had to carry her daughter over a fallen log, and place her back down on the ground. Her feet sank in the muddy soil, and she frowned miserably as she slogged after her mother, wanting to cry for all her sorrows and trouble.

They came to a decline, and Sharall forded down it steadily. Lura, however, tripped and fell with a sharp cry, tumbling down. Sharall caught her, halting her descent. Lura sniveled in fear, shaking, lower lip quivering in what felt like a brush with death to a three-year-old.

Sharall placed her back on the path, and continued downwards. Lura's eyes watered. It was unfair! She was hurt, and scared, and wanted to be comforted and held. She wanted her Mama to tell her it would be all right, to kiss her, and hug her, and tell her she loved her. And she _wasn't!_

She sniffed, sad and angry. She wished Leto were here. He would help her. He would hold her hand as she climbed, and he wouldn't let her fall. And if she did fall, he would help her up and smile encouragingly. He would tell her to be careful, and brush off the dirt, and tell her not to cry.

At one point, she had believed her mother would do the same. But she felt betrayed; she wasn't. She questioned her mother's love then, as children are wont to do when they feel neglected. Distracted by her discouraging thoughts, she tripped and fell again, tumbling into the dirt for the umpteenth time. This time, her mother did not come back to pick her up. Rather, she looked back, and waited anxiously for her to pick herself up, and only made a motion for her to hurry to keep up.

It felt like they had been going for an eternity by the time she collapsed again, in tears at her own weakness. Her mother came back for her, lifting her into her arms.

Then she froze. Lura looked up, listening. She heard… dogs? It was the braying of hounds, and she saw her mother go ghost-white.

She fled, carrying Lura in her arms, running as quickly as she could, desperately. She tripped, and stumbled. Branches seemed to pull them back, whipping at their faces, catching on their clothing. Her dress ripped and tore, and she continued on.

They raced. Twigs snapped. A rock tumbled down a slope, striking another rock. The sound was so loud Lura felt that everyone could hear it. The dogs certainly did, and it sounded like they were getting closer. Their braying was getting clearer.

Her mother ran on, her long legs pumping, her feet striking against the earth in a desperate, mad rush to get away, tears streaming down her cheeks as she strained against time, against the limits of her own body, with everything at stake.

She stumbled, and fell. Lura tumbled out of her arms. She could see the hounds, just down the slope, and behind them, their handlers, the soldiers, on their mounts. Her mother's eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet. She stumbled, and rushed headlong down the slope.

Lura stared after her in wide-eyed disbelief.

She… had left her. "Mama!" she cried out, as if in pain. The tears streaked down her face as she watched her mother disappear under the trees. Her lower lip quivered, and she sobbed.

She was abandoned. Mama didn't love her. Mama didn't want her. She had abandoned her!

The dogs were upon her. One was called to hold her, and one man dismounted; the others pressed on after her Mama.

She sniveled, scared of the dog, and scared of the man, but heartbroken over what her mother had done.

She heard the dogs, heard a woman she knew to be her mother screaming. Abruptly, the scream cut off. The soldiers and the dogs returned, but not with her mother. One of the men was cleaning a bloody knife, and her eyes locked on the blade, an icy sensation of dread welling up in her stomach. And she began to realize…

"What happened?" the man who had been left behind inquired.

"When the dogs got her, she tried hitting them with a stick, and then _fucking attacked me_!" the other scoffed.

A third man, the one with the knife, chortled, "I slit her throat—the woman was mad. We don't need to deal with no madwoman right now." Lura heard a small noise escape her lips in something like a gasp, but the tears wouldn't come. Her eyes hurt from all the crying she had done throughout the day, and it was just like there was simply nothing left. Her heart cried out in agony as she felt that she finally understood. The cold rationality of what death truly was touched her young mind, and the result was not as enlightening as she had assumed. The adults were right to not truly explain it to her. Death was scary, and painful and bloody, and meant that you would never see the person that died again. It meant you were alone, and somehow that her mother had abandoned her right before she died made it all the worse.

She would never get to say goodbye. Never get to kiss her mother's cheek again, or be held in her arms. She would never have her mother brush her hair again, or tell her stories, or sing songs. She wouldn't hold her hand, or stroke her cheek. Papa was dead too. No one was coming back.

Lura was alone in the world, and no one cared about her. No one loved her.

"The whole story, now," the man huffed the order.

One of the men visibly rolled his eyes. "We were about to overtake her, and she… _went mad._ Started yelling and throwing dirt and rocks, and got a hold of a tree limb. She started swingin' it, and we got it away from her, but she kept kicking and clawing." He shrugged. "She was mad."

"A mad woman can still _sell_. You don't have to be _sane_ to work a field," the other hissed, taking a swipe at the man's head. His gauntlet connected with his helmet. He looked to the others. "Who killed her? Who gave the order?"  
One person reluctantly stepped forward. "I did, ser," he said, bowing his head in shame. Lura heard the words, but not _really_. Like she saw the forest around her, but it was only trees.

The person took a swing at him. He saw it coming, but didn't try to dodge, or even block it. He took the gauntleted fist to the temple, and went down. He coughed, rolling in the dirt, dizzy. "I'll deal with you later," he growled, then looked to the others. He sighed, glancing down at Lura. "The child won't keep up with the horses—you take her, Boris."

The third man grumbled, and snatched her by the wrist. She cried out, and screamed in terror. This was the man who had killed Mama.


	9. Chapter 9: The Hounds

Four days. Four days they had been living off naught but nuts and berries, and they were all bone-weary and hungry. The rabbit had spoiled, unable to eat it, so they had left it for creatures with stronger stomachs than they; something would eat it, she assured Newlyn.

The pace they needed was not something they could attain with one man, a pregnant woman, and a child, with but one horse between them, and little food. And Newlyn was in plate mail, for a while. By the third day, he just couldn't manage it anymore. The walking, sleepless nights, all of it—and it was simply too much to ask of the destrier to bear without fodder too. He tried to manage walking in his heavy mail, but they both knew it was doing naught but slowing them down, and they needed to be lighter on their feet. He kept the gauntlets, the bracers, the boots and leg armor, but the good breastplate with the family crest—all that remained of his family's tarnished honor-he had to leave behind. He hid it, but she feared that it was not well-hidden enough. It would be like a flag to their pursuers, but what else could be done? He looked strange to her, in his padded leathers he wore under the armor, but he moved much more quickly, more fluent. Though, she wondered if he should not have abandoned it days ago so they may have put more distance between the Tevinters and themselves. In time, maybe soon, he would need that breastplate.

He was a very kind man, and nothing if not thoughtful. She wasn't sure she liked the lessons he was giving Leto, and only a few weeks ago, she would have insisted against it, but now… He had given her a knife too, and had also been teaching her—"just in case," he said.

That "just in case" seemed to be always at their heels, driving them to flee ever farther at a rate that was approaching too much for them. The poor horse had about had it—she was a war horse, after all; she was a ferocious thing for charges, a cavalry horse. She could bear a man in full armor for a time, but run through the woods with limited breaks, little to eat, and no sleep was approaching too much for the girl. Mieta feared the horse would soon stubbornly dig in her hooves and refuse to move. She had heard that there were some horses that would run until they were dead, but Bluebell was the sort to stop moving when it became too much for her. The poor thing desperately needed that saddle off, but they didn't dare give her the break she needed, and leaving her saddled for so long was naught but cruelty. What would they do when the horse wouldn't move? Leave her if they had to, she supposed.

She had been listening to the dogs for nearly an hour now, and knew they were gaining on them. Elves had sharper hearing than humans, and the dogs were anything but quiet, and they echoed. And when she at first hadn't heard the dogs themselves, she had heard signs of them—suddenly fleeing birds, the stillness of the forest, and how _wrong_ everything had felt when they were gaining on them. The forest, to one with trained eyes, always gave signs of wrongness.

She had no doubt in her mind that they were on their trail, knew they would catch them, and so saw no point in running their horses where they could break a leg just to catch them more quickly. With the failing light, it was a good plan to move more slowly. That almost made it worse. She had no illusions that they didn't know precisely where they were, and no illusions that they would outrun them. Their only real hope lay in reaching the nearest Qunari encampment, or even a hunting party. It was a slim chance, that. But _possible_, Mieta had to keep telling herself, or the despair would make her simply give up and submit to slavery. If it were only herself, it would be something else. But she had to keep going for her son's sake, and for that of her unborn child.

She looked down at Newlyn. "They'll be upon us soon," she warned him.

He nodded. "Then we need to find a place to make a stand." He looked about him, and continued purposefully forward. He led them up a winding path as if he knew this forest—maybe he had been through pieces of it when he had been hunting-up to a precipice that Bluebell liked not at all. He gave the reigns to Leto after helping Mieta down, and insisted the boy stay on the horse, no matter what. "She'll protect you," he told him. His eyes were wide with fear, but he nodded bravely. Mieta was proud of her son.

For a child, he was proving incredibly steady, and cried a lot less than any other child his age might have. Mieta saw Newlyn go to his knees, for a moment, hands clasped together in prayer. Leto peered around the horse's head, watching him with faint curiosity.

Mieta went to her son. She had no words to say to him, but hugged him nonetheless. He hugged her back, dutifully, but she felt like something in him had changed since he had witnessed his father's death. She feared something about him was fundamentally cracked ever since that moment, though she prayed that wasn't the case.

"You've been very brave, darling," she said to him. "But I need you to be braver still."

He said nothing, but looked at her. He could hear the dogs, too, after all.

Newlyn rose to his feet, watching. She looked back, over the ledge. The dogs had appeared from under the trees, three of them—hunting hounds. They brayed at the bottom of the ledge, looking up at them, their forms just barely visible through the mists clinging to the ground. Their prey was cornered, and their job at least was done.

The knight turned his head, only slightly, keeping his eyes below, and said, "Mieta. If they catch you, remember this: Slavery is not a state of being; it's a state of mind. Tell your children." He swallowed. "Tell them every day, and let them never forget it."

She was too terrified, and tired, to puzzle through his words, but she remembered them.

Their handlers came first, followed by the collection of soldiers. Mieta paled when she saw the long pale blue robe. They had sent one of the mages after them. Newlyn grew pallid, and glanced over at the other side of the ledge. Mieta followed his gaze. The ledge continued, and there was even a narrow path. It was too slender for a horse, and would have to be taken on foot, inching along sideways, and it disappeared around a bend. There was no telling if it continued past that or not.

But Newlyn, she knew, was no Templar that could hope to defeat a mage. They were all nothing but a few drops of water to a raging fire.

The soldier's jaw set, and his eyes had gone hard. Mieta knew what he meant to do, but she didn't want to abandon the one who had risked so much to help them. It just didn't seem fair.

He glanced back at her, once, as he watched the soldiers slowly make the ascent. She even saw them joking and laughing. The mage stayed back, as was appropriate, looking up at them from astride her horse, a slight smirk adorning her face.

It just didn't seem fair. They had worked so hard to get away, risked so much, been through so much, and they were already upon them. It just wasn't fair. After everything they had been through, they would only be captured again, and sold off as slaves, she assumed, or killed.

"Run," Newlyn hissed through gritted teeth.

Mieta looked at the approaching soldiers, and the mage, nervously backing up toward the horse. "I won't abandon you to die," she insisted.

"I die either way."

"Come with us," she insisted.

He shook his head, firmly. "Can't. There won't be anyone to stall them while you escape." She looked up at her son. She lifted him from the saddle, and placed him down on the ground, reluctantly. "Could you take off Bluebell's saddle?"

She nodded, and unbuckled it. She shoved it off and simply let it fall. The big horse sidestepped away from it, her tail flicking, but she tossed her head appreciatively, chomping at the bit. Newlyn picked up the saddle in one hand, which might have been impressive, once; it was heavy, but Newlyn was a pretty big man. She wondered what he was planning on doing with it. He shoved his sword, point-first, into the earth beside him, and took the saddle in both hands. He looked down at the approaching soldiers, and they backed up upon seeing what he had planned. He waited, and the mage yelled at them, so they reluctantly continued. She realized he was intending to heave the heavy thing at them. She wished him the best of luck at it, and hoped he knocked at least one of them off the slope. There was no point in going for his bow; they were in armor, and had shields. While an arrow could still cause some bruises against such things, it would be almost completely a wasted effort for all but a master archer, and Newlyn was not that.

The horse seemed relieved to be out of the saddle at long last. Mieta scratched the mare's neck affectionately, and hesitated before she left. She looked back at Newlyn, his brow drawn down seriously, and knew without a doubt that he was going to die.

"I will remember you always," she told him.

He looked back over his shoulder, just a quick glance. "As the man who failed you."

She shook her head a little. "No. As the man who risked everything for someone he didn't know nor had any obligation to. You are a noble man, Newlyn," she told him. She took Leto's hand in hers, and led him across, slowly and carefully, over the narrow ledge. Her back pressed against the wall, she breathed deeply, trying not to notice the huge gap between her feet and the ground below. She tested each step before she took it. Once, a bit of earth crumbled away, and her stomach tightened in fear. She wondered if facing the soldiers would be better.

That was when she heard the first clash of swords, the yelling. She heard something heavy banging against something else, a sound of an animal in pain. They were fighting, and Bluebell had joined her master in the fray. She tried to hurry, as much as she dared. They had just rounded the bend, and the path opened, when she heard the horse's death scream. She shuddered to herself, and she felt Leto's hand tighten briefly.

They could walk, while not side by side, at least a bit more comfortably now, though it was quite steep, and at times, it was easier to crawl.

The earth suddenly seemed to quake, the ground shivering, making her hug the path as she crawled down, for fear of being shaken loose. Something told her that this was no natural quake; this was the wrath of the mage.

The fighting had stopped though. That must mean that Newlyn was dying or dead. She closed her eyes for a brief moment in his honor, and kept going.

The path drifted down into a fog-ridden ravine, and there they could run, so they did. They raced along the bottom of the ravine, eyes wide with fright, but dark with lack of sleep. Newlyn had told her that the only reason they would pursue them for so many days could only be to bring himself to justice, and had assured her that, _maybe_ if she and her son could get far away enough should this ever happen, they may not feel inclined to give chase if she could only put enough distance between them. After all, their primary concern was in dealing with the deserter, not two runaway captives. He commented that chasing after only two of them, and having the entire army held up for a few runaways would cost them more than it would earn them. He had also, late at night when Leto was asleep, cursed himself in a low whisper for not sending the pair on ahead with Bluebell, and leaving himself behind. At the time, Mieta had had none of that nonsense. Now, she only wondered if he had been right.

With two captives being a meager prize, they still had a chance. Maybe they would leave herself and her son now that Newlyn was dead. She mourned his death; he was a good man. But if his death could save her life, and her son's, it was a sacrifice well-worth the cost. One life for two, three if she counted the form growing in her womb.

But she dared not wait to find out. They had to flee, and get as far as possible. They would know soon enough if they followed.

The ravine gradually flattened until they were again winding amidst the trees. She had thought, for one brief, shining moment, that they had done it, that Newlyn's prediction had rung true.

Then she heard the dogs.

It was the dogs that ran them down, but they weren't war hounds to tear out their throats, just hounds used to pin their quarry, but they still barked, and snapped, and snarled—ready to pounce if need be, but content to hold. The soldiers came, and the handlers, the mage. Mieta tried to keep running, but then they were all around her.

Her hand went to her knife as a man in studded leather armor approached her. He had a bit of blood on him—probably Newlyn's blood; it was fresh—and seemed more bored than anything else. "You've led us on a merry chase," he said, quite annoyed. "Time to head back to camp. I'm sure you're half-starved anyway, so it couldn't be that bad."

Her eyes narrowed. She'd rather be starving and exhausted than fed and captive. She didn't know how the knife came to be in her hand. One moment, it wasn't, and the next, the steel flashed through the air. Her hand sailed, and six inches of steel plunged into the man's unarmored neck. He sputtered, gasping. He slid off of the blade, slumping to the ground. Blood pooled around him, soaking his shirt. Her hand was bloody. The knife dripped blood.

Her eyes widened in horror. Mieta had killed someone. A man was dead, and it was her fault. Not someone else's—her own. His life was gone, snuffed out for an eternity, because of one quick, unthinking motion. The knife dropped from her trembling hand. She was barely aware of her son beside her staring at the dead man. She dimly heard another of the soldiers curse.

They didn't beat her for killing him, maybe because another soldier pointed out her obvious pregnancy. The mage commented that she hadn't liked him anyway, and bound Mieta's wrists in a cord. They put her on the dead man's horse, and tied her to the saddle. Leto they put in front of her, and didn't bother tying him. There wasn't much point when the boy couldn't even get down without help, after all.

She tried not to look when they rode past the place Newlyn's body should be, but she saw Leto's head turn toward him. She pushed his face away, whispering to him not to look. He said nothing, but seemed annoyed that she wouldn't let him see.

A child didn't need to see so much death.

She wished she could take it back. She wished that she could take back her decision to kill that man in front of her child. He had just seen his mother kill someone. Her hands had drying blood on them, from a dead man. She shivered at the thought. She wished… There were a lot of things she wished, and all were unattainable.

But, regardless, she did wish she could do better for her son.


	10. Chapter 10: The Shadow of the Imperium

Lura felt so numb. Her eyes hurt, and she felt like there just weren't any more tears left. When they had gotten back to the camp, the men had beaten her with a long stick, and thrown her back in the mud. She had cried, cried for days she thought, but it didn't help.

Lura was alone. Mama and Papa were both dead and they were never coming back. She would never see Lady either, or her home. Even the people she recognized and knew by name seemed different enough to be strangers now. They offered her no comfort, no salvation, no hope.

She spoke not at all, and ate mechanically. One time, a girl a few years older than she stole her food. She only let it go. If she didn't eat, she would die too, she knew. But Mama and Papa were dead. So maybe… Maybe it would be best if she were dead too. If she were dead, she wouldn't be so alone, would she?

She sat, and watched. Eventually, the wagons began to move again, but even more slowly than last time; there were injured soldiers, and the mages healed where they could, but apparently serious wounds took a long time to heal, and animals had been killed in the fighting as well, so a lot more people had to walk. The camp followers had suffered as well, and they lagged behind even further.

By the third day of traveling since the in-fighting (the sixth since Mama died), she saw Leto again. He walked, sullen, tired, and dirty beside his mother, who faired no better. She noticed that they didn't beat her, but seemed to want to. That didn't stop them from beating her son though, and it seemed like that was far worse for her to Lura.

She cried out as if it were herself, and begged to be hurt in his stead. Lura watched on, feeling cold, and numb. They had done the same thing to her, after all. She knew what that stick felt like. She imagined that it might be the same one too. Her back still had welts. A woman said that it might even scar. Leto was bloodied by the end of it, and shaking, just like she had been, his voice having abandoned him. She had stopped screaming too. It was like her voice had just given out, like floorboards rotted away beneath her feet. The tears hadn't stopped though.

But at the end of it, his mother picked him up, cradling him against herself, and he held on to her tightly. Lura's fingers curled tighter, hugging her legs to her chest. She begrudged him that. His mother was alive to hold him afterwards. No one had held her. People had tried not to see her hurt and in pain, and stole her food. Mieta had gotten some water from a puddle and did what she could to strain the dirt from the water as she washed off her son's back of the blood. No one had helped Lura.

As Mieta walked to the wagon on staggering feet, she saw Lura sitting on the grass alone. She went to her, and knelt beside her, still holding her child. Leto looked back at her over his shoulder. His eyes were wet, and red. "Lura, darling, you look terrible," Mieta cooed, and opened one arm in an inviting hug. Lura had thought she couldn't cry any more. Had thought she had cried all her lifetime's tears already, but she found there were still some left. Wetness tracked down her cheeks as she flung herself against the woman's chest, and sobbed into her shoulder, her tiny fists clutching her blouse.

It felt so good to be held. Just to have someone who noticed, who cared. Why couldn't Mama still be alive? She had felt so… so wicked. She had been angry, angry that Mieta was still alive when Mama was dead. It hadn't felt _fair_, but that was wicked to think. She _couldn't_ think like that—it was _wrong_ to think like that. She couldn't say _why_ exactly, but it felt _evil_ to think that way. Surely it wasn't someone else's fault that their mama was alive when hers was dead? Besides… her mama had abandoned her and tried to run away without her. She just couldn't make it make any sense.

"Mama… Mama!" Lura screamed into Leto's mother's chest. Mieta, a mother herself, understood the child's desperate cries, and held her more tightly for her loss. Lura wept for all the things wrong in the world, even the things she didn't understand, or couldn't know. She cried for her hurt, for Leto's hurt, for Mieta's hurt, and all the other people still alive, and dead, and who would die. She cried, and wondered why this war was so important. She wondered why this could happen, why would anyone let it happen?

When the two children finally let go of her, she held them both out at arms reach, and gently wiped away their tears. Lura reached out, and took Leto's hand. He glanced back at her. He didn't smile, not even a little, but he did squeeze back her hand, and she felt, even just a little bit, better.

Mieta's smile looked forced even to Lura, and it faded quickly. "You're both so brave," she told them. Lura didn't feel brave. She felt cowardly, and miserable, and wretched. She felt filthy and hungry, and so tired. But she didn't voice her thoughts; it was nice to hear someone praise her. "You know the spirits of those who have died can still hear you?" she told them.

Lura's eyes grew wide with wonder. "They can?" she asked, wanting to believe. She wanted to believe that Mama and Papa could still hear her.

Mieta nodded seriously. "Yes, and they're watching over you too," she said, and touched Lura gently on the nose. She tousled her son's hair as she was wont to do. "So remember that always." She sat back, straightening her back.

"But if they can hear us, why don't they say anything?" Lura asked.

But the woman only smiled at the child's innocence. "They do," she insisted.

Lura frowned. She had prayed, and cried, and even screamed for Mama and Papa, but it certainly felt like no one ever heard her, much less answered her. Maybe Mieta was only making it up after all. She felt her heart fall. "But…"

"Darling." The woman cupped her cheek gently, lifting her head to see into her eyes. "You have to listen, and be very quiet, or you won't hear them."

And Lura felt the tears begin to well again. "But… But I've been talking to them, and they don't answer!" she heard herself sob.

"Were you very quiet?" Mieta asked her, her voice dropping down to a whisper. The two children listened intently. "You have to be very quiet, because they have very soft voices, because it's coming from far away."

Lura's lower lip quivered, and her stomach twisted in knots. Had she missed their messages? Had they been speaking all this time and she had missed it? Had she been too loud? "But… But… What if I missed it?" she asked, her eyes welling with fresh tears. She wondered at her ability to produce tears.

"Don't worry. They'll always try again, but you must listen," Mieta told her.

Lura paused, and nodded. "I'll listen," she promised. Mieta hugged them both again.

Lura whispered her prayers at night, and told her Mama and Papa how frightened she was, how much she missed them. She lay awake at night straining the darkness for their answer. She often drifted to sleep before she heard them, though felt she heard their voices sometimes as sleep claimed her.

The road was long, and the wagon was cramped, but walking was hard. If she walked, and some days, she had to, her feet were sore and she was so tired at the end of the day that she didn't want to move. But riding in the wagon meant that her legs were cramped, and she couldn't stretch all day, and she had to squirm and try to hold her bladder until it stopped in the afternoon, or all the way until dinner. Either way, she hated it, but it soon passed into a terrible routine and became all she knew.

She took some solace in Leto, though he had changed a bit. He didn't speak very often, but he let her curl up against him at night for warmth, and Mieta held them both as best she could. She was glad of Leto's mother. No one stole her food with her around, and Mieta sometimes carried her when they had to walk, so that made it better.

Lura felt like everything in the world had been taken from her. Her family, her home—everything. She didn't feel like Lura anymore—she felt like someone else.

The soldiers seemed excited about something, and she wondered what it could be, and continued wondering until afternoon the day after, and she finally saw the city. There were big walls, just like in Schavalis, with high turrets, and towers. Men patrolled the walls. It was a city by the sea, and standing on the hill as they were, she could even see the ships in the harbor. They stopped early, and were given food. The adults were tied together with rope, and everyone was marched into the city. Lura stayed close to Leto and Mieta. She wanted to ask questions, but something kept her silent.

A smaller division of soldiers marched along with them, leaving the main body behind. She was tired and footsore by the time they had made it to the city. Mieta couldn't carry her with her wrists bound. She looked up at the rope around the woman's neck. She couldn't say what she thought of it; she didn't understand it. Why would someone do that? She just… didn't understand.

There were people who came and spoke with the soldiers, and then they were ushered along by a different, less scruffy but no less menacing, group of men. The few remaining older male captives were separated and brought elsewhere—all those from about eleven summers and up, she judged. What she didn't know was that they would be briefly trained, and then sent to fight against the Qunari.

The others were brought to a different place, and put in another warehouse, with cages. Lura was grateful when they put her in the same cage as Leto and his mother, and unbound Mieta's wrists. They were promptly ignored. Mieta told them stories to pass the time, and she saw other people listening to her stories as well. Sometimes, another adult would tell a story, and Lura strained to hear. They fed them a bit more now, but they were there for days and it quickly stunk. Lura and Leto were not the only children there, and all of them, including Lura, asked what was going on frequently, but none of the parents were inclined to answer. The questions, though, as many children as there were—over a dozen—never seemed to cease, from one to the other. One day, one of the teenage girls yelled in a vicious voice, "They're taking us to Tevinter, you stupid child! We're going to be sold and auctioned as _slaves_!" The venom in her voice had made even the boldest of the children hush, before the inevitable questions continued, and the girl was only too happy to sadistically explain what "slavery" meant in scathing tones, even as the other adults tried to make her stop.

"Some of you will work in fields in chains for the rest of your life," she said with the cruelest smile Lura had ever seen.

"Please stop…" An older woman.

"You stop, old hag—What good will _you_ be for? Nothing, that's what. You'll be fortunate if they send you into the coliseum, and you'll be consumed by lions," she hissed, then cackled somewhat madly before she continued on her rant. "And _some_ of you will be sold to brothels—and wouldn't you all like to know what _that_ means." She laughed again.

"Stop it, please… Rhinesse, stop," another teenage girl who seemed to know her pleaded.

The girl, Rhinesse hissed a laugh at the other girl's expense. "You." She sneered. "I bet _you_ get sold to some magister and you'll be scrubbing floors the rest of your life."

The other girl stared at her as if hurt. "Rhinesse, you can't…"

Rhinesse laughed again. "Oh, and all of you will have to call someone 'Master' for the rest of your _pathetic_ lives. And don't even get me started on the _breeding_ process for slaves—have fun with that."

"What do you mean?" a six-year old inquired.

"Don't listen to her," his mother said.

"But what does she _mean_?"

Rhinesse sneered. "And you better hold onto your mommies while you can. Most of you will be sold to different masters, and you'll never see your 'mommy' again."

This made the youngest and most sensitive begin to cry. Leto was eerily silent on the matter, and stared straight forward as if he were not listening. Lura was quiet, as both her parents were dead. "Stop it—look what you've done!" one of the mothers snapped at the girl. "What right do you have to do this? You're acting like a spoiled child."

Rhinesse gave her a malicious grin, as if she were actually enjoying tormenting all of the youngsters like this. "What would you know? A wrinkled thing like _you_ didn't get used by the soldiers every night. What do you know?" And she crossed her arms angrily, and glared at all the children. "It'll happen to most of you, you know. Even the boys, I bet. One day, a man is going to force you down and—"

Mieta had finally had enough of her, and being that they were in the same cage, stalked over to her and slapped her across the face. "Shut up," she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. "Just shut up. No one wants to hear it. I'm sorry about what happened to you, but what we need right now isn't horror stories—it's keeping these children calm, and you are _not helping so be quiet."_

With that, she went back to Lura and Leto, and sat down as if nothing at all had happened. Rhinesse fell silent, nursing her cheek where Mieta had slapped her.

Later the next day, they were marched back out, down to the harbor.

Lura stared down at the tiled streets in quiet wonder. They were mosaics! There was one in the market square too, but this was just an ordinary street! She wished she could stay and figure out the picture, but they just kept going. She stared around the city. It seemed strange. There were so many humans here. She had seen humans of course, but there were many elves in Schavalis, and their numbers had been about equal with the humans that had lived there. She guessed that humans had lived in this place.

Brightly coloured flags whipped at the top of buildings, the sun beat down on them, the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and fish. People went about their business and didn't even give her a second glance. Seeing all the people in their fine, clean clothing only reminded Lura that she had been in the same dress for weeks now, and it was dirty and travel-worn, ripped and tattered. It wouldn't last much longer, she thought. She felt gross, and dirty, and scratchy. She wondered if there were fleas and lice on her, the way she kept itching.

The docks were a busy place, and somehow felt open, and lonely, even with all the people and the towering buildings, the ships, and the cargo stacked all around. They were put in what she heard someone call "the hold," which was a large open space, but inside cages with straw piled on the bottom of them. She was put in a cage with Mieta, Leto, and one other elf, an older girl who stared out at the world as if she were already dead.

The tossing of the boat out at sea made her sick at first, but she ate so little, she didn't throw up. She laid with her head in Mieta's lap, and the woman stroked her hair gently, and she felt better. She heard people crying at night, and sometimes, she heard herself crying at night, though couldn't always name why. Someone screamed over a rat before someone else made the screamer shut up.

Sometimes, a couple of the sailors would come down with the keys and take someone out. They always brought the girls back, though. Lura wondered what they could be doing to them. Once, it happened with the quiet girl in the cage with them. She went quietly. Rhinesse always screamed and fought when they did it—some of them did. They always came back beaten and bruised.

Lura knew what that was like. Her own beating had only just healed, and she knew it had scarred, though she couldn't see all the marks on her back. Leto hadn't scarred, and she was almost angry about that.

The girl was brought back and shoved into the cage. She fell on her knees, and Lura watched her quietly. The girl was shaking, and crying.

Mieta tried to comfort her, but the girl shoved the woman angrily away, and slunk in her corner. Lura thought of it as being the girl's corner anyway—she rarely moved from it, except to go to the other corner, to make water or something.

They tried to keep their waste confined to one area in the hay, but with the ship's rocking, it just wasn't possible to do it completely. It stank at first, but Lura became accustomed to it after a while. There was little choice but to accept it.

She also became accustomed to the little amount of light, the creaks and groans of the ship, the way it moved. She became accustomed to the sounds the others made, and knew them by voice if not by name.

A man came down, and took the girl again. She sobbed when she was led away. Oddly, that time, she didn't return, but she heard two sailors, as they came down into the hold for something in one of the cargo boxes, talking about how "one of the slaves jumped overboard and drowned." Did they mean that girl? Had she jumped overboard and drowned?

Lura had nearly drowned once—she remembered. She had slipped and fallen into the deep end of the pond, and Papa hadn't realized in time. He had dove in after her, but not before she had swallowed a lungful of water, and it had hurt—bad. The memory was hazy, but she remembered the pain of breathing the water. Was it like that to die from it too? Or was it worse? Was drowning better than what was happening to her, to them all? It must be, if she had truly jumped. But what was happening that that pain and then death was better? The idea that pain and death was better than wherever they were going was terrifying.

Lura couldn't say for certain, but the girl never came back all the same.

It was nighttime when the ship docked again, and the adults were brought out one by one, and tied together. Lura stayed close to Mieta, afraid again. They were brought above deck, and her first glimpse of starlight after so long in the meager light seemed blinding.

She kept a hold of Mieta, and walked with her. As they were led down off the ship, and through the docks, she looked up at the city, and gasped.

The first thing she saw was that it was enormous. There were bigger buildings than she had imagined were possible—not just towers, but big soaring buildings with windows, but were long like a house could be, and bigger. And they were painted, and there were statues, and carvings—not just in a few places, but everywhere. The street they were led on was paved, and clean. The air smelled like incense. They were given a few buckets of water, and told to strip and wash with a harsh lye soap, to help with the vermin. Mieta helped both children first. Leto was more independent and refused assistance with anything. They were dressed in their rags again shortly, shivering and damp.

They were put in another warehouse, in other cages. At least these ones had clean straw, and chamber pots.

She wondered what this place was, but remained silent until the men had gone, and Mieta rubbed her previously bound wrists.

"Where are we?" Leto asked before Lura could.

Mieta seemed reluctant to answer, and at first Lura wondered if she had heard him at all. "This is Minrathous," she whispered, and something about the tone of her voice made the children fall silent. "The capital of the Tevinter Imperium."

Lura had heard about this place, of course, but had never imagined to see it. Of course, she knew next to nothing about it. She supposed… she had plenty of time to learn.


	11. Chapter 11: The Flash of a Blade

Raith trailed after his master dutifully, but to be honest, was bored out of his mind. He understood that a magister had to do these errands sometimes, but he really didn't like walking. _Why_ did they have to _walk_ anyway? Couldn't the slaves carry a litter? Or a carriage even?

The apprentice slogged along, to all looking unhappy to be out in the sunshine of the day. He would rather be studying, or doing something _useful_. He reprimanded himself immediately: Of course this was useful. There were certain investments with the ship captains, certain investments with the slave traders, certain bribes to be made, and Raith had to learn them _all_ if he were really going to be a decent apprentice, let alone magister one day.

Still…

Surely this could be done from the sanctity of an office room at the manor, maybe while sipping a cool glass of gin? That would be nice.

And fitting—making the _lesser creatures_ scurry to _him_ to do business. But his master _had_ said that if he didn't physically _see_ these things, at least _sometimes,_ they could lie and cheat him. Don't even trust spies and never trust friends for a magister had none, he had told him—that was how one stayed alive in a world governed by politics and magic. And the backstabbing, assassinations, and duels were just another facet of it, and not even something he should consume too much energy worrying about at that! The political backstabbing was the worst of it.

Frankly, sometimes Raith wondered if it was a life he wanted at all. As a child, it was a dream-come-true. As a teenager, though… Well, he really wanted to go meet a girl or something sometimes, and he was under such strict rules and regulations, had certain protocols to adhere to… He wasn't even allowed to get _drunk_ lest it tarnish his most esteemed master's name. And the one time he _had_ decided to ignore that particular rule, his master had… not been happy, to say the least—and neither had Raith by the end of it.

He had been twelve at the time when he started apprenticing. He hadn't even been at an age where he truly knew what he was doing—just that it meant a better life. Money, power—what more could a man want? _Sometimes, _he thought ruefully, _a man just wants to get drunk at a cheap bar and go to bed with a whore._

Surely, _that_ wasn't such a bad thing?

His master was brilliant, in every meaning of the word, and frequently made him feel inferior, despite their scant difference in age—not even ten years. Part of his master's brilliance, after all, lay in that he was one of the youngest magisters in history, as far back as the Storm Age, due to a series of unfortunate familial events as well as passing all the tests ahead of time, and assumed the title at a mere twenty winters. He, though, had grown up with the idea, been trained for its inevitability, though he could have made it by apprenticing as well—and would have; he was talented. That alone made his mark, even if it were a small scar along the path of history. But he wasn't content for that; he was striving to achieve greatness, something to be remembered for. Raith just wondered if he ever rested. He wondered if his master ever just… well, did anything for the sake of the action, and not a plan. He wondered what he had been like as a child. Just as serious?

Most the business of the day had been attended to, though, so they really should have been leaving back to the manor soon, but were taking a severe detour through the slave market. Danarius was always looking for something new.

He trained slaves to fight in the coliseum, not personally of course—that would be silly—but he had his own team. There was good coin in it, if they won, and it certainly won the crowd's approval when a much-liked champion won, and they had a higher resale value when he inevitably sold them to the army additionally. In short, it kept the commons happy, while getting them to like their magisters as well. Entertainment did that. Raith saw some point in that, but, frankly, disliked the coliseums overall. They were noisy places, outside. Why would anyone want to watch a bunch of half-naked, oiled slaves hack each other's limbs off anyway? Coin, he supposed—but the commons came. They made bets too, though, but they certainly did cheer at the sight of blood.

_Blood_. Great power came from blood—that was one of his lessons, and why it was important that he remember the point of the coliseums. Blood can not only be used to amplify his own power, but it can be used to control others. Blood could heal grievous wounds and revive failed crops—it was one of the reasons for his country's success. And, not only just through magic. He remembered the roar of the crowds, the way they went wild at the sight of first blood, like there was something truly mystical about it. There wasn't, but that didn't stop them. The coliseums slaked a person's bloodlust too, and it proved a decent way to get rid of criminals.

Raith's lips curled into a tired frown when Danarius had stopped, and was looking at a group of slaves. The merchant was boasting about how they came from Seheron. Raith rolled his eyes. That wasn't a _boast_—that meant they were half-wild and not to be trusted! Still, they were always useful to throw into the coliseum; it wasn't always about false battles and fighting; sometimes it was just about dying: Bears, tigers, lions, wolves—the slaves were thrown in to them naked, and the crowd would place bets on the outcomes… Which would be eaten first? How long would they last? Would they scream?

He glanced at the "half-wild" wares. _Well, they certainly _look_ cowed and subservient_, he thought disdainfully. Danarius was looking with some interest at a pregnant woman toward the back of the cage. Elves could be difficult to breed sometimes, even with herbs to help with the process.

"Have her step forward," he commanded. His tone was one that was used to being obeyed—instantly and without question, and woe to the one who was not quick about it. The little merchant scurried around to the side. He used a long cane to prod her in the thigh.

"You—get forward," he snapped. She jumped, and hesitantly stepped closer, head down, and frightened. Two children clung to either of her hands. All elves looked alike to Raith, but neither really looked like her own children to him. The boy (was it a boy? It was so hard to tell at their age!) had a shade of blue-black hair he had never seen before, and sage green eyes, and looked little like the woman. The girl was doe-eyed with what promised to be curly reddish brown hair if it were washed and brushed. The pregnant woman had straight nearly black hair and frightened hazel eyes, more green than brown or blue. He wondered if the two children hadn't simply clung to the first person around them, but by her stance, she seemed protective of the two. Raith noticed that she leaned more in front of the boy though. If either was her real child, it was the boy.

Elven children had all the beauty of the adults, with the natural charm of the young of any species. Pleasant enough to look at or observe, but overall useless really.

Danarius looked down at the boy, who stared up at him blankly, before his eyebrows drew down in, not fright, but a suspicious glare. The man was amused, if nothing else. He looked back at the woman. "Does she have any skills?"

The merchant fumbled, and removed a roster. He ran through it briefly, stuttering a bit as he did so. But Danarius looked back at her. "Do you?" he addressed her instead.

She swallowed, and looked down without saying anything. The merchant jabbed her immediately with the cane, in the back this time. She made a small sound of pain, but otherwise didn't move. "Answer him, bitch!"

She blinked, and continued staring downwards. "I was… a… tailor… serrah. I'm very good at embroidery… and hats," she added, voice so soft that Raith had to strain to hear it. Her poor accent suggested that, while she did speak some Tevene, it was not a tongue she often used, which may have been the reason for her long delay in speaking.

Danarius was looking at the child beside her. "Is he yours?" the magister inquired, switching to the Trade tongue with relative ease.

The boy stared up at him, defiantly, but still was pressed close to his mother's leg. "Yes, serrah," she squeaked. The little girl was all but hiding behind her.

"The girl?"

A pause, then, "No, serrah."

His eyes strayed back to her pregnant belly. Raith judged her to be… five months along, give or take. Considering they were caught in war, he was surprised that she hadn't miscarried. The child would be strong, he assumed, considering all it had been through without even having been born. And for an elf to have two children so close in age… It wasn't unheard of, just unlikely; they reproduced slowly. That had been a problem for slave-owners for generations, though, and a frustration. But it _was_ why there were still plenty of human slaves available. If she were fertile enough for that, it could prove worthwhile.

He looked back at the elf-child with the black hair, who had only continued to glare up at him. Raith wanted nothing more than to smack the child across the face, and teach him some manners, but Danarius… Danarius was just amused as ever that the child would _dare_.

He turned back to the merchant. "How much—for the pair?" he said, gesturing to the mother and child. The girl held on closer to her surrogate. The boy reached toward the girl, comfortingly. The pregnant woman was shaking, and starting to cry. Pathetic, really—but typical. He wondered what his master could possibly want with a three-year old and a pregnant tailor. He supposed there was always tailoring work to be done, though. And the boy… the boy might be rather pretty when he was older, he supposed. His master owned several brothels—he could put him in one of those; he would probably fetch a decent price too in a few years.

The haggling began, and the woman shivered. The boy looked up at her, and back at the magister. Raith saw the connection being made, but thought nothing of it.

It happened so fast; no one saw it coming. No one knew.

One moment, all was normal. The next…

The boy's arm flashed. Raith caught a glimpse of steel in the sunlight, but at first couldn't make his mind understand it. He thought he must have been seeing things, because it wasn't possible that…

Then there was blood, a gasp of pain.

The boy jumped back, away from the cage bars, stumbling backwards. Danarius cried out in obvious pain, and fell. The small knife was buried to the hilt, deep in his thigh. He could bleed out from that. Raith knelt beside him, magic tingling around his fingers already. He dared not remove the blade yet—it could be the only thing slowing the bleeding. He worked quickly, and he heard men yelling and calling for help around them. There was no need; Raith was fair at healing for his age; apprenticing under a magister for nearly two years and he had learned much.

He sought the core of magic within him, merged himself with it. It wasn't so much like drawing water from a well as releasing a floodgate, a restraint on the magic all mages learned to have. But it wasn't as simple as dumping a bucket of water into a glass to fill it. He had to let it trickle, gently, lest it overflow or lest he spill. His magic raced along the other's body, seeking out the trouble, the ills, the pain. Only when he was confident that the bleeding had been sufficiently halted did his fingers wrap around the hilt of the blade. He gently drew it out, and dropped it beside him, away from the cage. Flesh knitted, muscle wove back together. But one thing had changed—there was a pale, thin scar across the place, for which he felt a pang of unease.

He felt like he wasn't good enough to be his apprentice. A _good_ mage could heal anything without a scar. He had been told, of course, that only the most skilled healer could do that, especially for a mortal wound, but he felt like he had to be that. He felt like he had to be the most skilled at everything.

The robe was ripped, and stained—possibly ruined. Raith glared over his shoulder at the boy. The mother had her arms around him, but the boy didn't even seem to see her. He was watching them with wide eyes, as if he hadn't really grasped what he had been doing, and only now realized the implications.

He had expected Danarius to react with anger, rage—kill the boy. Raith wanted him to. In fact, the words flew out of his mouth before he could reign them in. He glared at the merchant, and pointed at the child. "Kill him," he hissed.

But Danarius rose, slowly, and putting most of his weight on the other leg, to his feet. "No," he said. Raith blinked. _No?_

He rose, quickly and full of anger. He gestured to the bloodied dagger at their feet. "But that brat could have killed you," he found himself arguing.

The mage didn't answer, but looked at the pair cowering in the cage. The mother looked so terrified for her son's life. The merchant was completely pale, stricken. The magister could have him killed, after all. "I—I'll give him to you, and the woman," he added quickly. "Just… P-please…"

"Have them sent to my manor," the magister said, dismissing him in the same breath. He turned, not even limping as he moved on, back to his manor.

The merchant shouted to his own apprentices, taking out his anger on them. Raith picked up the small blade, and quickly followed after his master.

What was he _thinking_? Or maybe he just wanted to kill the boy more slowly? Or use his life in a spell? At least some _good_ would come out of the brat's worthless hide!

If Danarius had died… If he hadn't gotten there in time… A person could die from a wound to the leg. They could bleed to death in mere minutes. If he had died, Raith's life might as well be over. He would be a dead magister's apprentice. He couldn't amount to much like that. He didn't know what he would have done.


End file.
